


Time to Dissolve

by misqueue



Series: The Architects of Life [5]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Discussion of Cancer, Discussion of Infidelity, Drama, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Kink, Season/Series 04, broken relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misqueue/pseuds/misqueue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set over episode 4x10 "Glee Actually". There's little about Christmas this year that Kurt would choose. That's not necessarily a bad thing. A story of family and friendship and transforming grief into hope.  </p><p>(Although this is set within the same canon-based arc as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/385738/chapters/631848">In the World of Silence</a>, it should stand alone just fine.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born while pondering the notion some of us had after "I Do" that Blaine and Kurt may have slept together over Christmas. This story explores that idea. Title is taken from the lyrics to the Tears for Fears song "Break it Down Again".
> 
> Extra large thank you's to [Calliopeoracle](http://calliopeoracle.tumblr.com), Odd ([asecondgrace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/asecondgrace)), and [Corinna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Corinna) for taking critical looks at the early, messy draft and encouraging me onwards, and to Sheryl ([airy_nothing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airy_nothing/pseuds/airy_nothing)), for supporting me through the whole creative process, poking the story in all the right parts, and the final beta reading. This story would still be languishing if not for their valuable input. Any remaining flaws are not due to their diligence.

It's Christmas Day, and Blaine is in Kurt's space once more. But Kurt isn't looking back just yet, to where he's left Blaine by the entrance to the loft. Instead, he doffs his coat and goes to the kitchen where he's spied a slip of paper on the table. From behind Rachel's curtain comes the sound of his father's light snores. The hour is late, yawning at the edges of Kurt's consciousness, and, even after the walk from the subway, his ankles remain wobbly from the skating. His cold cheeks prickle as blood flow returns, and he picks up the note. It's from his Dad, informing him he's wearing earplugs, so he and Blaine don't need to tiptoe or whisper.

Kurt runs his thumb over the pattern the ink has furrowed into the paper, traces the familiar shapes of his father's handwriting. Instead of crumpling the note and throwing it away, he folds it with care and tucks it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Then he crosses the kitchen to retrieve a glass from the shelf by the fridge. He takes a deep breath, and then he turns to check on Blaine.

Seeing Blaine, Kurt's heart responds with such an immediate sense of comfort and affection, only for Kurt's head to swiftly recall: _"I was with someone."_ Then it all twists inside out into something nightmarish. The incongruency of it hurts: to look at Blaine—who isn't secretly evil, but earnest and nervous and so very sorry—and to feel something other than safe and good.

Blaine's not looking back at Kurt. He stands just inside the door, hesitating as he takes in the dimly lit loft. The only illumination comes from the colorful lights spangling the tree and the string draped above the kitchen window, bleeding a technicolor patchwork of light across the half-lowered blind. Blaine swings his backpack down from his shoulder and says, "I'll crash on the couch?" at the same time Kurt asks, "Would you like anything to drink?"

Self-consciously, Blaine laughs and shakes his head.

Kurt sets the glass down on the table. "I'll get you some bedding."

Overnight the chill in the loft grows bitter, so Kurt takes the spare fleece blanket off his bed for Blaine, and he retrieves the wool afghan from the trunk beneath it. He spares a rueful glance at his boyfriend pillow, Bruce, who also lies within the trunk. The top sheet from his spare sheet set and the two pillows from the unused side of his bed follow. He clasps the bundle of blankets and pillows in his arms and pauses for a long moment. His eyes sting and his chest aches, and he's not sure why because he's trying so hard not to think about anything too much. He's determined. And yet. He wipes his eyes on his shoulder, sniffs down the wetness in the back of his throat, and exits the privacy of his curtains.

Once Kurt's got Blaine settled, he asks him if he's sure there isn't anything else he needs. A cup of tea? Cocoa?

"No, thanks," Blaine says. "We should go to sleep or Santa won't come." Blaine's smile is too bright. Not exactly forced, but not entirely natural either. It makes Kurt feel tired.

Regardless, Kurt summons a smile to answer, though he can't unbend all the melancholy from it, and he can tell from the way Blaine's smile dims, that Blaine sees it. "Hey," Blaine says; his expression shifts back to what Kurt recognizes as purely sincere concern. He offers an open palm to Kurt. "May I? Hug you again?"

Kurt's gaze falls from Blaine's face to his hand; he swallows hard and nods.

There, in the kaleidoscope light of the Christmas tree, Blaine holds him. Less tightly this time and longer. His hands are so careful, smoothing over Kurt's shoulders and down his spine. It's something between the hug of lover and the hug of a friend. Kurt resists the desire to move closer, just tightens his hold on the back of Blaine's sweater, and he hears Blaine's breath catch.

"It's going to be okay, Kurt," Blaine murmurs. Which is absurd, but the whole situation is absurd, so Kurt doesn't voice his disagreement.

"I'm glad you're here," Kurt says, because that's true. And then he lets go. "I'll see you in the morning."

#

_Christmas dinner._

The necessity of it wakes Kurt with a jolt. Darkness surrounds him, just the faintest glow of the city filtering in to shade and highlight the drape of the curtains around his room. Instinctively, Kurt reaches for his phone where it lies nearby on the bed, slips his thumb across its face to wake it. The nighttime chill is enough, the glass fogs with his breath, and Kurt shivers and squints against the painful twinge of the screen's light in his eyes. And he sighs. It's barely three AM. He's been in bed for little more than an hour.

Kurt sighs again, more emphatically this time; he rolls over and ignores the emptiness of his arms and his bed, ignores the impulse to retrieve Bruce. Instead he tucks his cold feet up closer to his body, pulls his bedding up to his ears, and tries to sink back into his mattress, back into rest. But his heart is beating too fast now, an unwitting victim of his subconscious panic. He's awake and too cold to find sleep again easily.

And his mind is determined in its emotional paralepsis: _Whatever you do, don't think about the possibility that this is Dad's last Christmas._

So there's that. He didn't plan to feed other people, not even casually—certainly not as a combination of The Last Christmas Dinner For Your Dying Father along with The First Meal With Your Cheating Ex-Boyfriend Since He Broke Your Heart. Delivery Chinese and a pan of brownies isn't going to cut it. Christmas dinner for his family shouldn't be made by strangers, so going out is not an option either.

Kurt imagines his way through the pantry and fridge inventory to see what inspiration he may find there. First, he supposes, no meat; meat is bad for cancer. So is sugar. And salt and fat are bad for his Dad's heart. So: produce. Lots of vegetables and fruit. No fat, no salt, no sugar—no bird.

In the fridge he's got enough fresh vegetables: there's some broccoli, a red pepper, and mushrooms. He's got the traditional _mirepoix_ components: carrots, onions, celery. There's some sweet corn and a pack of spinach in the freezer. He could do some kind of vegetable stew or casserole. Rachel left some soymilk in the fridge. They've got raw cashews, nutritional yeast, tofu, and brown rice; he can come up with something, he's sure. Blaine will eat anything Kurt cooks, but his Dad—

His Dad will hate it. And since this could be his Dad's last Christmas dinner, it's got to be traditional turkey with cranberry sauce and gravy, mashed potatoes with butter, his grandmother's bread stuffing, and pie for dessert. They can think about the anti-cancer food after this.

Which means he needs to get a turkey. On Christmas day.

Kurt turns to his stomach and groans into his pillow. It's not an insurmountable challenge in New York City. It's just... It's everything really.

His Dad has cancer. That's a too new thing, not incorporated into him yet, a hard block of information that hasn't disseminated into his being. He knows when it hits him it's going to— He doesn't want to think about it.

This time he eludes his worrying brain by reorienting on his other problem: His cheating ex-boyfriend, who has stubbornly remained his most beloved friend, is uncomfortably asleep on the lumpy futon in the living room. It's another strange thing, stranger in some ways. He's faced his father's mortality before, but Blaine's betrayal and his own heart's insistence on such terrible ambivalence, it's a complex of emotions he's never prepared himself for, doesn't know how to begin to untangle the anger from the love, the fear from the desire to forgive, the regret from the longing—the delicate flutter of white-winged hope from the sticky web of immutable grief.

And no matter how often he says it: 'cheating ex-boyfriend', the inescapable truth is that it's Blaine. Just Blaine. Blaine, the shape of whom remains inscribed upon Kurt's heart, indelible despite the break. Blaine, who cannot be reduced to such a glib phrase, no matter how Kurt wishes he could dismiss the pain of it with each bitter utterance of it. He rolls to his back, takes a deep breath of cold air. Kurt pushes his fingertips between the buttons of his pajamas, right over his heart. It still beats, too rapidly, but it hasn't stopped, though there have been times he expected it to.

And then there's next month, starting classes at NYADA. He's not sure how to feel about that right now. The triumph of his admission is remote, the importance diminished. In there somewhere he knows it's still the lynchpin of his future; he's still happy and proud and excited, but he can't feel it. It's just one more thing.

Like his need to get a fucking turkey.

But it's three AM Christmas morning. There's little to be done.

Sleep continues to elude him. He thinks about getting up for a cup of chamomile tea, but he doesn't wish to disturb Blaine. So Kurt ends up reading: the dog eared pages and prose of Gregory Maguire's Wicked provide familiar company.

#

By six AM he's still awake, and the light by the sofa clicks on, drenching his wall of drapery with light and the wavy, cluttered criss-cross silhouette of the bookcase. Kurt sets his book aside and lies there some time longer listening for Blaine. Hears the muffled scuff of shoeless feet upon the floorboards, the _snick_ of the bathroom door, running water, and then a muted clank in the kitchen and the soft gasp of the fridge door. Kurt takes a deep breath and decides to get up.

The ache of far too little sleep weighs heavily behind his eyes as he pulls on his winter dressing gown and a pair of thick socks for his cold feet. He finds Blaine in the kitchen at the sink, rinsing a glass. His hair is neat, and he's well pulled together in his crisp pajamas and neatly tied robe. "Hey," Kurt says softly, tucks his hands into his pockets.

Blaine looks up. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No," Kurt says, approaches the pale wash of light from the kitchen.

"I never can at Christmas either," Blaine says. His smile flickers before it holds.

Kurt makes sure he smiles back.

Blaine sets his glass down beside the sink. "You want coffee?"

"Please."

Kurt sits at the kitchen table and watches Blaine set up the espresso machine. His motions are so familiar and efficient, it creates a warp in Kurt's mind, a little skip of memory to back home in Lima, to his kitchen the Saturday morning of the day he'd left for New York:

Blaine had stayed the night prior; they'd gotten little sleep. Kurt spent most of the night packing, Blaine helped, and they tried to have all the conversations they needed to have before they parted. Strange that they hadn't made love that night, that there was no deliberate 'one last time'. Somehow the suddenness of Kurt's departure, the logistics of it—in the stale incandescent illumination of those late, last few hours together, what might have been urgency turned to anxiety. That had soured Kurt's libido. Neither of them had been in the mood.

Kurt remembers sitting at the kitchen island, in the warmth of the morning, watching Blaine operate this same machine. The summer sun angled through the window over the sink and lit Blaine's bed head, caressed the curve of his cheekbone, brightened his eyes. As the machine hissed and steamed and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, Kurt's anxiety faded, and, in that absence, a quick pang of regret had pierced him, because they _hadn't_ made love last night.

But when Blaine had turned to him and smiled, Kurt's regret vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, for Blaine's smile promised the patience of Penelope. And in that moment, Kurt believed wholly that it was all going to be fine. They'd see each other on weekends, Skype every day, and mail handwritten love letters scented with their cologne. It was going to be romantic. In retrospect, it seems so childish.

Now, on this dark, chilled Christmas morning in New York, that old belief—that faith Kurt had—seems an especially cruel thing to haunt him. Blaine leans against the counter facing Kurt, arms crossed over his chest and his unfocused attention resting in some indeterminate place on the opposite wall. A shadow clouds his gaze. It may simply be lack of sleep, or it may be something else. Kurt wonders if Blaine is thinking about that day too. But he doesn't ask, and Blaine doesn't volunteer any of his thoughts. It's not the comfortable silence of past mornings. Kurt's never been good at making small talk, especially not with Blaine.

Eventually Blaine straightens and says, "I nearly forgot." He leaves the kitchen for the living room and bends over his backpack where it rests by the futon. He rummages for a few moments while the pressure in the espresso machine builds to a rumble. When Blaine straightens, he's holding a square cookie tin; it's red with gold and silver stars. He brings it to Kurt and sets it on the table. "These are for you," Blaine says. "Merry Christmas."

Inside the tin, Kurt finds neatly stacked, inexpertly iced cookies: gingerbread snowmen. Some wear scarves, some bow ties. They're adorable in their slight dishevelment. Kurt feels his weary smile widen into warmth, and that warmth blossoms deeper, displaces some of the ache in his chest. The feeling is welcome.

"I was going to mail them," Blaine explains, "when you said you weren't coming ho— Back to Ohio, but then your Dad called me, and I realized I could give them to you in person. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Kurt asks with a smile. "Why would I mind? You know how I feel about your gingerbread." It comes out sounding like he's flirting, like gingerbread is a double entendre for something, except it's not. It never has been, it's just... It's too tempting to fall into old, comfortable habits. "Thank you," Kurt finally says, and he realizes the possibility that Blaine means to keep his promises from last year—even if they're not together. It's quite a gift.

"I'm glad you like them," Blaine says. His eyes shine.

"I don't really have anything for you," Kurt says. He glances down at the cookies and their wobbly smiles. Except that's not entirely true. He does a have a gift, something he bought Blaine before. Before Blaine was _with someone_ and Kurt stopped wanting to give him anything. It wasn't a gift meant for Christmas, just an 'I miss you' sort of thing. It's an old leather bound volume of Shakespeare's tragedies. Hardly a suitable Christmas gift, but it's practical, so perhaps it'll work. "Well, I do, sort of," Kurt amends. "But it's not exactly—"

"It's okay, you don't have to give me anything."

But he wants to. "It's Christmas, Blaine," Kurt says. "I bought it for you a while ago. I'll go get it, but I won't wrap it."

Back in his bedroom, Kurt tries to ignore the swoop of emotional vertigo as he retrieves the book of tragedies from the bottom drawer of his dresser where it's nestled beneath a pair of sweaters. His attention doesn't linger on the other things lying beside it, the face down photo frame, the shiny red box. He unwraps the book from the tissue paper the shopkeeper packaged it in.

In the kitchen, Blaine waits for him, with two cups of coffee made. Kurt presents him the book without flourish. "It's meant to be part of a set of three, but it was on its own. I liked it and thought of you in Mrs. Kirk's class this year, reading _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ and I—" Kurt shrugs. "I thought of you."

Blaine takes it, runs his fingertips over the dinged up red binding, faded to orange along the spine and darker at the edges with the patina of use—and Kurt loves that the book was read, not simply displayed—the pages, brown edged with age still hold all the beautiful illustrations. It's from 1846, and it should have been expensive, but without its shelf-mates, Kurt could afford it. He thought Blaine could give an orphaned book a good home. "I love it," Blaine says. "Thank you, Kurt."

"So I guess the theme of the day is cookies and tragedy," Kurt says, meaning it to be a joke, but it falls flat—so flat. "I'm sorry," he says, and he's so tired, this time he can't stop himself from tearing up in the wake of his seesawing mood. He drops his head to his folded arms upon the table.

"Hey," Blaine moves to the chair next to him, and rests a hand on his back. "It's... it's not okay. I know it's not, but it will be, all right?"

"This might be his last Christmas, Blaine," Kurt mumbles.

"Shh, no, sweetheart, it's not. It's not." Blaine rubs gentle circles across Kurt's shoulder blades.

"It's why he came. It's why he brought you. I know my Dad," Kurt mumbles.

"He came because he wanted to spend Christmas with you. And he brought me because he knew we had plans."

And oh, god, those _plans_. Kurt sniffles discreetly against his sleeve, and then he lifts his head and looks at Blaine. "I know I said we'd talk, but I can't, not today, not... It's just. It's too much, you understand?"

"Yeah. It's fine. We're fine, Kurt. I just want you to know I'm here for you, okay? Whatever you need."

Kurt breathes, and the tears stop. "Do you want to know what I need most today, Blaine?" he asks.

"Tell me," Blaine says, so intent and sweetly concerned.

"I need a god damned turkey," Kurt says, and he can't quite crimp the quick grin from his lips as he says it.

Blaine's eyes widen. "You need a..." He trails off with a laugh smothered against his own shoulder.

#

The sun's coming up, warming the fogged glass of the kitchen window. Kurt goes over to raise the blinds higher. He hears movement from Rachel's room, his Dad's familiar morning 'harrumph'. Kurt fills the kettle while Blaine returns to the living room to fold his bedding.

His Dad emerges in his terry robe and flannel pajamas, "You kids got any more of that coffee?"

"Is that safe with your arrhythmia, Dad?"

"Yeah, doctor even recommended it." His Dad's hand rests on his shoulder for an instant, squeezes and then lets go with a pat.

"Okay," Kurt blinks, sets the kettle on the stove, doesn't turn it on. Goes instead to the espresso machine to clear it out for a reload. "I'll make some fresh."

"Thanks," his Dad says and calls out a louder, "Merry Christmas!" for Blaine's benefit. Then he heads for the bathroom. The radiator ticks and crackles to life, so it must be eight o'clock.

#

For breakfast, Kurt makes vegan french toast; Blaine gets a Christmas playlist going on the stereo in the living room; and his Dad hovers—as much as one can hover while seated at the kitchen table. "You sure I can't help?" he asks for the third time as he watches Kurt whisk soymilk into cinnamon, cornstarch, and chickpea flour.

Kurt adds the tiniest pinch of salt, and he relents. "You can slice the bananas and wash the blueberries," he says.

His Dad sets his coffee mug down and, with a smile, gets up. Kurt can't help but look for signs of weakness or pain or other indicators of ill health, but his Dad seems the same as always.

"Just like old times, huh? Making brunch together?" his Dad says, getting the chopping board from behind the sink.

"Yeah," Kurt says, returning the smile. He glances across the loft to the living room, catches Blaine's attention long enough to snare a smile of his own. It's nice, everyone smiling. Except that Blaine's the one hovering now, standing near the Christmas tree, looking uncertain about what to do next. And it's not like Kurt wishes either his Dad or Blaine weren't here, it's just so much to balance. A day that should be simply celebratory is fraught with peculiar responsibilities and requires such complex interpersonal choreography, Kurt feels entirely off balance. But he _can_ do this. He will.

"Hey, Blaine?" Kurt calls, aims to keep his tone casual, not at all demanding or expectant.

Blaine's "Yeah?" comes so promptly, it nearly steps on the question mark.

"Could you please find me a market that's open today and selling fresh turkeys?"

#

By the time breakfast is ready, Blaine has made a few phone calls and has a short list of vendors within walking distance.

They sit at the table. The loft has warmed quickly, with the morning sun and heat from cooking adding to the radiator's efforts. "Mmm," his Dad says. "I've sure missed your cooking, kiddo."

"Me too," Blaine offers softly, almost shyly.

Kurt accepts the praise with a nod, and he dares to relax, tries to find some comfort in the morning breakfast table. "Then you can both do the dishes," he says lightly.

After breakfast, they go to the living room to open presents. There aren't as many parcels under the tree as there would've been back at home, and Kurt's terribly aware that he has little to give beyond himself and his hospitality. He hopes it will be enough.

There are hand-knitted scarves for each of them from Carole, an iTunes gift card from Finn, and, "Here," his Dad says, reaching under the tree for a flat rigid parcel, wrapped simply in green and red striped paper. He passes it to Kurt. "I got you this, too."

Kurt takes it with a, "Thanks," and he can't help but glance at Blaine, his other 'gift' from his Dad. And while Kurt knows his father's intention was not that Kurt consider Blaine an object to be given—the gift was about enabling friendship and support (and perhaps even love). But Blaine sits, in the repurposed leather car seat, prim and straight-backed, ankles crossed and smiling, looking very much like he's trying to be the best gift he can possibly be. As if Kurt could've—or still may wish to—return him.

And it's scarcely ten AM.

The present from his father is a folding silver photo frame. On one side is an old photo from the Christmas when he was five and Santa brought him his dollhouse. He stands in front of it grinning as widely as his five year old self could, with his mother kneeling beside him, arm about his waist. She wears the green and magenta enameled hummingbird pendant Kurt had got her that year. His father stands next to her, his hand upon her shoulder. They're all smiling. The tree shines brightly behind them even in the time faded photograph.

The other side is last year's Christmas, crisp and new: his Dad, Carole, Finn, Kurt, Rachel, and Blaine, all bundled up in their winter coats, pink-cheeked and laughing in front of the snow-draped cedar in the front yard.

Two happy memories. "Dad," Kurt manages before the threat of tears closes his throat. He nods to express his gratitude, and—god—as much as the photos mean to him, why is this so fucking sad? Why must the day feel like an ending? As if all there is to do is look back.

"You okay?" his Dad asks, and Blaine murmurs something that sounds concerned.

Kurt swallows his tears, remembers what his father said last night, to hold the people you love close. He looks up, meets his father's gaze and then Blaine's. "We should take one together today," he says. "A photo."

It's tricky to arrange: there's no tripod and just their phone cameras, so it ends up being a cramped selfie of the three of them, with Kurt in the middle. Then Blaine takes one of him and his Dad, and his Dad takes one of him and Blaine, and Kurt emails them to Carole, wishes her a Merry Christmas, tells her he misses her and Finn, and promises they'll call later today.

#

Kurt showers and dresses. He chooses his clothes carefully, soft fabrics, rich colors. When he comes out of his bedroom, he finds his Dad is settled comfortably on the futon, scrolling through the cable menu, and Blaine is reading a magazine. Kurt double-checks the list he's typed into his phone against his intended menu and realizes he won't be able to carry it all, not with a sixteen-pound turkey to lug. He'd prefer to go alone, so he could catch his breath and clear his head, but it's not a day to be stubborn.

"I'm going to need some help getting the groceries," he says, glancing up from his phone to Blaine.

"Sure," Blaine says.

His Dad waves off his fussing before he goes, insists he can fill his own damn water glass, and yes, he's warm enough, and he's even not remotely hungry. So Kurt and Blaine get their coats and they go.

#

On the street, the air is dry and brittle with cold, and dirty slush lines the gutters. Above, the sky is a cloud wisped blue-tinged gray. Kurt inhales deeply. The icy air comes into his lungs like a ribbon of steel, coils tightly around his heart with its sharp edges. He can't hold it, lets it out again fast in a puff of fog.

Beside him Blaine is smiling and at ease, with the scarf Carole knitted him wound around his throat: it's proof that his father and Carole still love Blaine. And that hurts in a weird way, even though Kurt knows there's no one taking sides. Ultimately it was Kurt who invited Blaine back into his life. But there's something else too. A knot of insoluble feeling remains a lumpish tangle in Kurt's chest, for his parents' continuing affection for Blaine soothes an even deeper wound within Kurt. It eases the quietest, private part of him that has been so ashamed—ashamed for foolishly trusting and loving in the first place, for having such naive romantic fantasies that he walked right into this pain, blind to the danger. Because maybe there were signs, things he should have seen in Blaine to warn him off. Somehow he should have been smarter and known before it was too late. Protected himself better.

So for his Dad and Carole to still welcome Blaine without hesitation or reservation, it means perhaps his judgment wasn't so poor that he was wrong to have fallen in love with Blaine. That he wasn't stupid to trust and dream and make that leap. His parents' continued inclusion of Blaine in the family is motivated by genuine affection, and whatever he and Blaine are now: friends, ex-lovers—something new and unnamed. Blaine is still welcome here.

It's not enough to resolve Kurt's dull mood as they walk. Blaine makes several attempts to draw Kurt's attention to things of beauty or topics of amusement, but Kurt doesn't have it in him to smile or laugh, can't summon much more than a wry, "Uh huh."

After a few blocks Blaine soon gives up trying to cheer Kurt. For some reason that makes Kurt even sadder.

#

Back at the loft, in the kitchen, Kurt takes off his dark blue cardigan, rolls up his sleeves, and washes his hands thoroughly while Blaine unpacks the contents of their paper shopping bags to the table.

"You want me to take care of the bird?" his Dad asks. It's always been his Dad's gig on Thanksgiving and Christmas, preparing and roasting the turkey, and—no thanks to Brody—Kurt still hasn't cooked one himself. But this is his home, and preparing this meal for his father feels like the most important meal of his life.

"No, thanks, Dad. I'll do it this year."

"Let me know if you need help," his Dad says and turns back to the television where some sports journalists are winding everyone up for the basketball game.

Turning to Blaine, Kurt picks up the turkey from where it rests on the kitchen table, wrapped in butcher's paper. He speaks more softly. "You can go watch the game with him if you want. I've got this covered."

Blaine blinks at him. For a moment he looks disappointed. But Blaine recovers with a quick, reflexive smile and says, "Okay."

Kurt carries the bird carcass to the sink, sets it down, and gets the roasting pan from the oven drawer. He turns on the oven to preheat. Behind him, he hears the rattle of Blaine grabbing ice from the freezer, the musical clink of it tumbling into his glass. When Blaine finally exits the kitchen space, some of the tension drains down Kurt's spine and leaves with him. There's the murmur of the television, familiar and easily distanced into meaninglessness.

As Kurt unwraps the turkey from its paper, the weight of his fatigue lifts marginally. He's able to focus on this one thing. Just this: preparing the meal. He maneuvers the heavy carcass into the sink, takes a breath, and reaches into the neck cavity to remove the parcel of giblets. Then he turns on the tap to begin washing the bird.

Handling meat like this—particularly an entire dead animal—has never been easy. It's more than the tactile unpleasantness of its cold, wet fleshiness beneath his hands. It's that he can't approach it as an object or distance his awareness of it as the body of a formerly living being. So, as Kurt turns the turkey in the sink beneath the stream of water and works his fingers over it to clean it of any lingering debris, he thinks about the animal it was, so that he may find gratitude for its sacrifice.

He gets it patted dry and into the roasting pan. Once the turkey is in the oven, he'll make the pie and the cranberry sauce, and then he'll start prepping ingredients for his other dishes. He's running through the recipes to best order those tasks as he turns with the turkey-laden roasting dish. He'll finish dressing the bird on the table, but he needs the sink clear to wash the herbs for the herb butter. (Not for the first time, Kurt wishes the kitchen had more counter space.)

His hands are wet, the pan is heavy and unwieldy, and Kurt underestimates the folly of fatigue coupled with mild distraction. The handle of the roasting pan slips from his left hand, and—in that impotent flash of understanding exactly what's happening but being unable to react quickly enough—everything crashes to the floor with the grotesque _splat-thud_ of dead flesh, and the horrendous clang of metal.

Kurt stops. He stands and stares at the empty black enamel pan, the pale bird carcass, and the wet smear it's left on the floorboards. A wave of— He's not sure what it is, but it's hot and cold and dizzying, and it surfaces behind his eyes. He starts to cry. Not noisily, but he can't keep the tears from flooding his vision, or the weakness trickling down his arms to numb his hands.

His Dad says something—a question—but Kurt doesn't turn to look back toward the living room. Instead he gathers his voice to call out, as calmly and with as much strength as he can muster. "I'm fine. It's all fine."

Then he sighs and bends down to pick up the turkey, dumps it back in the sink with a hollow _thunk_. He pauses, gripping the cold metal edge of the basin, and he tightens his lips against a sob that surges up out of nowhere. He shudders with the effort of keeping it in and turns his face to wipe his tears on his shoulder.

Soft footsteps fall behind him. The sound of the pan scraping the floor follows. Then, presence and warmth near his shoulder. "Hey," Blaine says softly. He sets the roasting pan next to the sink. "May I help?" Blaine asks.

"I'm fine," Kurt says and sniffs. "It was just an accident, I'm fine. You can go back to—"

"You don't have to do this alone," Blaine says.

Another sob lurches up from his chest. It makes Kurt gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. "Yes, I do," he whispers, because he knows he does. He may not be able to articulate the logic of it, but he does.

Gently, with a hand cupped behind Kurt's elbow, Blaine replies with undeniable conviction: "No, Kurt. You don't."

It's the way Blaine says his name. Kurt stills, relaxes his eyelids, but keeps his eyes closed. Draws a deep breath in through his nose. Lets it out slowly through his mouth.

"Let me help," Blaine says. "Please?"

Blaine's sweetness is enough; Kurt doesn't have it in him to resist. He opens his eyes and gives in: "All right."

"Okay, so what do we need to do?" Blaine asks, pushing his sleeves up his forearms.

Kurt manages a grateful smile and sniffs again. "I'll clean the turkey, get that done, and—ugh—I'll need to disinfect the floor," Kurt says, clears his throat, thinks. "Um, so if you could get the butter from the fridge—both pounds—and the fresh thyme. Oh, and then..."

As he runs through the requirements of his menu plan and explains things to Blaine, it settles his nerves. Kurt's eyes dry, and his head clears. Normally, he doesn't like having someone else hanging around in the kitchen with him when he's preparing something complex and time consuming, but Blaine is attentive without being smothering, and he takes direction so well—he knows Kurt so well. With him, it's easy. Blaine carves out a space to work on the opposite side of the table, and they get it done together.

By the time the game starts, everything is well under control. All the vegetables are cut, other ingredients measured. The turkey and the pie are in the oven, and the bread stuffing awaits its turn. Kurt says to Blaine, "Would you go keep my Dad company, please? I'll make some popcorn and join you soon."

#

Carole calls during half-time. His Dad puts the call on speaker and sets his phone on the coffee table so everyone can talk, and Carole does the same at her end. The loft fills with the exuberant muddle of familial voices. It sounds like everyone's well into the eggnog over at Carole's sister's, possibly even Finn. There's laughter and well-wishing and questions about gifts. They got snow in Zanesville. No one mentions the cancer.

A pang of sadness lingers within Kurt when they all say their goodbyes. It wasn't the private conversation Kurt had hoped to have with Carole, but perhaps today is not the right day.

#

Once the game is over and the oven timer has gone off for the final time, Blaine sets the table—makes the most of the decor items in the loft to create a centerpiece—and Kurt serves the food. The dinner conversation is strained in a way that grows uncomfortable for Kurt. It's not that it's awkward, but talking about the small things—like the differences between the D.C. Metro and the New York subway, or the record snowfalls back in Lima, or the internal politicking of the House Democratic Caucus (which on a different day wouldn't feel quite so much like a small topic)—it feels disingenuous. It's like they're skating over the seriousness of his father's cancer diagnosis with mock obliviousness. Trying too hard to make this uncomplicated and happy, like nothing is wrong. It feels dishonest, and he doesn't like it.

So, after the dinner dishes are cleared, Blaine is whipping some cream, and Kurt is slicing the pie for dessert, he turns over his shoulder and asks, "Can you tell me what your treatment plan is looking like, Dad? What's coming up?"

"Kurt, we don't have to talk about this today. I told you, there's no need for you to worry."

Kurt rolls his eyes and sets down a plate of pie in front of his Dad. "It's too late for that. I'm worrying anyway, and I'd feel better knowing more, so I can be prepared."

Blaine brings the bowl of cream to the table and sets it down quietly. His Dad picks up his fork and looks at the cream longingly. It's comically pathetic. Kurt pushes the bowl toward his Dad. "For god's sake, it's Christmas. Have some whipped cream on your pie and tell me what's going on."

"Geez, no need to be so bossy, kid."

"Do you want me to give you guys some privacy?" Blaine asks. "I was going to call my parents."

"Up to you," his Dad says. 

"I don't mind if you stay," Kurt says. "You may as well know what's going on."

Blaine nods and sits. Kurt serves him some pie and seats himself.

"Okay," his Dad says, and he gives Kurt a more complete picture. He's got an appointment this week at John Hopkins with another specialist. The cancer is stage one, so there's no surgery scheduled yet, and he's not taking any chemotherapy drugs. He is on something to boost his immune system. There's going to be more tests and another biopsy to see how the cancer is developing before they settle on how to best approach it.

"Wait and see? That's it?" Kurt asks.

"For now," his Dad says. "When the cancer is this new, there's a chance the body'll take care of it, with the right support. But all options are on the table."

"They're not worried it'll spread while they're waiting?"

"It may grow, but there's time. The doctors, they want to know what they're dealing with before they start cutting into me or feeding me poison."

"But it's _cancer,_ " Kurt says. "What if it's really aggressive?"

"They don't think it is."

Kurt blinks and spreads a dollop of cream evenly over the top of his pie. It's still warm, and the base of the cream melts, making it slip over the edge and drip down the side. Kurt tries to push it all back up into symmetry. 

"We just got to be patient, Kurt, and wait for the doctors."

"This just... It doesn't seem like something to wait for, Dad. Are you sure there's nothing you're not telling me? Like it's actually more serious and you're trying to spare me—"

"No, hey. I'd never mislead you over something like this. Not after what we've been through."

"It's cancer, Dad. Anything could happen. You know that. I hate the thought that you're just sitting there and it's inside you, growing."

"Kurt, look, buddy. Yeah, the cancer could grow real fast. That's not impossible. I could die in a car crash tomorrow too. Neither of those things is likely. My doctors know what they're doing. We've got to trust them, all right? They tell me more guys die with prostate cancer than of it. The numbers are on our side."

"Okay..." Kurt says, but he's not feeling reassured. 

"If something goes bad, I won't keep it from you. I promise, you'll know. You'll be my first phone call. But until then, I need you to trust me, too. You don't need to worry about me yet."

Kurt sighs. "I'm still going to worry, Dad."

"I know you are," his Dad says with warmth and a smile. He reaches over and puts his hand on the wrist of the hand in which Kurt's holding his fork.

Kurt leaves off poking at the whipped cream and looks at his Dad. "Are you scared?" Kurt asks.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't," his Dad says. "But we're going to be okay."

Kurt nods, for his Dad's sake if not his own, to accept his father's optimism. But he doesn't believe it himself. He can't trust himself to believe it; he has to be prepared for the worst. So he looks up and smiles. "More pie?" he asks.

"That'd be great," his Dad says.

"I'll get it for you," Blaine offers. He stands and takes his Dad's plate over to the counter. It draws Kurt's attention, and he's impressed then, at how Blaine's just been there, quietly steadfast, offering support but not intruding. And Kurt can't imagine how awkward this is for him. Which makes Kurt even more grateful for Blaine, that's he's been enduring this to be present for Kurt. Kurt wonders if he's missing his family. How their Christmas party went this year. 

"Thanks, Blaine," Kurt says. "And, um, if you want to call your parents, you can use my room."

"Oh, sure, thank you," Blaine says. He sets the plate down on the table. "I'll, um, do that now then?"

Kurt nods and smiles, and Blaine goes. When Kurt hears the murmur of his voice, he turns back to his Dad. "Thank you for bringing him with you," Kurt says.

"It's not too hard?" his Dad asks. "Having him here?"

It's certainly not _not_ hard, but Kurt knows: "It'd be a lot harder without him."


	2. Chapter 2

After his Dad goes to bed—fortified against the New York city traffic sounds with both earplugs and Kurt's white noise machine—Kurt and Blaine sit on the futon together. The stereo still plays instrumental carols, and the fat red candles on the coffee table gutter and dim. Tired as Kurt is, he knows he won't be able to sleep yet, not without some pharmaceutical help, and he doesn't want to drug himself while he's a host. He's not sure why his Dad's gone to bed early, whether it's because his Dad was honestly tired and has been heroically not showing it all day, or if he's trying to give Kurt some alone time with Blaine. Either way, Kurt sighs.

"So, um do you want to watch a movie?" Blaine asks.

"Yeah, sure," Kurt says; he slides his hands down his thighs and fortifies himself to stand. "Pick something. I'll make tea and see if there're any cookies left."

Kurt goes to the kitchen and puts together a tray while the kettle boils: teapot, mugs, teaspoons, a plate with four cookies, a small jug of milk, and the jar of honey. He looks about for some other adornment for the tray, settles on the sprigs of hawthorn berries from their dinner centerpiece and a juniper scented candle that still has some life in it.

When Kurt comes back to the living room and sees the DVD menu screen, it makes his breath halt for a moment. Blaine doesn't meet his gaze as he messes with the remote, double-checking the audio settings.

" _Love Actually_?" Kurt asks, setting down the tray. It's one of his favorite holiday films, but it tends to make him sentimental. He's feeling fragile enough as it is.

Blaine cocks his head and looks up, his nose scrunched in the way Kurt's learned to interpret as hopeful and nervous. "Uh, yeah, I figured maybe Mr. Darcy would cheer you up?"

Kurt smiles weakly but speaks with more enthusiasm, "Well, you know how I have a thing for the accent."

So they watch, and it goes all right until Colin Firth comes home to find his girlfriend fucking his brother.

"Oh, crap," Blaine says. "I forgot about the... the cheating... Kurt, I'm sorry."

It hurts, but Kurt sees how stricken Blaine looks and takes pity. "Hey, at least you didn't cheat on me with Finn, right?"

"Oh, god." Blaine's face crumples into uncomfortable laughter. Kurt pushes play again. They can get through this movie.

But it happens again, and even Rowan Atkinson's comedic prowess can't stop Blaine from slumping toward the end of the futon, face first. "And Alan Rickman, too," Blaine groans into a throw pillow. "I officially picked the worst movie."

Kurt finds himself oddly unmoved by Blaine's guilt. It's nothing he needs; he knows Blaine is sorry. But he finds himself speaking before he can censor himself: "Would you have bought him a heart-shaped pendant?" Kurt asks. "Did you have a crush on him? Were you falling in love?"

"No." Blaine shakes his head as he sits back up and reaches for the remote. "Nothing like that." He pauses the movie, looks at the remote cradled in his hands for a long time. Then he sets it aside on the sofa between them. He looks at Kurt evenly, and he says, "His name was Eli."

"Oh."

"You... you wanted to know who it was. He was someone I met on Facebook. I don't talk to him anymore. It was just the one time."

Kurt can't find any words in his vocabulary to communicate anything related to this. He picks up the remote, rests his thumb over the play button, and says, "Let's finish the movie."

A short time later, about the same time Emma Thompson interrupts Alan Rickman at the jewelry counter, Kurt starts to cry, and he's not entirely sure why. There are so many reasons to cry, he can't isolate the primary one. And the thing is, it's not even all sad, there's something like relief in there too, and that doesn't make very much sense except: Blaine wasn't in love or trying to be in love with someone else. There's something bitter twisted up in there too, the same bitterness that's fueled his anger. There's a chain of logic Kurt's brain keeps cycling through: if Blaine was willing to throw away his relationship with Kurt over a boy he didn't love, with an encounter that didn't mean anything, then—by some transitive property—this means his relationship with Kurt didn't mean anything either. Because why would you throw away something valuable for something worthless?

Except it's not true that their relationship meant nothing, and he's pretty sure Blaine wasn't trying to destroy it, so it can't have meant nothing. So what did it mean? And that's where he always stalls. He doesn't understand. And he's not sure he wants to. It's bound to be a horrible mess; he'll feel worse, and maybe it would break what they still have left between them. He wants what they still have so much.

Blaine's hand is gentle on his knee. "I'm so sorry, Kurt."

Kurt nods. "I know." Then. "I can't... Blaine. I can't... right now. I'm going to go have a shower."

Privacy and space are what he needs, not the claustrophobia of other people. The snip of the lock on the bathroom door is as good as it's going to get. Kurt turns on the water as he gets undressed. Steam billows over the top of the curtain, and Kurt adjusts the water temperature to the too-hot side of just right. The building has good water pressure so Kurt stands beneath the spray for a while, lets it drum against the tension at the base of his skull, and he breathes slowly. He tries to clear his mind, concentrating on each breath in and out and the buzzing rush of the hot water; but the snarl of his thoughts is not so easily loosened.

He thought he wanted to know, that if he knew who it had been, then he'd understand something important about Blaine and why he did it. Instead, Kurt understands less now. It wasn't even a friend, just some random guy. Maybe it really didn't mean anything to Blaine, and Kurt has been assuming—because he thought he knew Blaine—that on some level, it must have meant _something_ , even if that something was something awful.

Would it have been worse, if Blaine had been infatuated or falling in love? If Blaine had hidden it from Kurt while mooning over some other boy and buying him romantic gifts? The answer should be clear, but it's not. Between the heat, his confusion, and bone deep exhaustion, Kurt grows increasingly woozy, and the awful compulsion to cry is gathering again behind his eyes, squeezing at the root of his tongue. The impulse to resist is strong, but there's no one to see him or hear him right now. This is a mere slice of the solitude he'd thought he would have over Christmas, but he'll take what he can get.

Kurt lets himself cry, ugly, snot-filled, heaving sobs. The water washes it all away, until he's depleted both his supply of bodily fluids and his energy. He sags against the tile wall, rests his forehead against the hard, grooved porcelain with a throbbing brain and raw-aching sinuses. He didn't think it was possible to feel worse, but he's managed. And as soon as he leaves this temporary haven, he's walking right back out into the realities of his life.

He can't put it off forever. He can't even put it off for the night; he's not sleeping in the bathtub.

The air outside the curtain is a cold shock. A frigid drop of condensation falls from the ceiling, lands on his bare shoulder. Kurt shivers and reaches for his bath sheet.

When he closes his fingers upon its plush edge, the white KEH embroidered into the indigo terrycloth draws his attention. It's something he's stopped letting himself notice, but tonight he loses the fight to keep the memories away—of early last summer, before graduation, when Blaine gave him the towels. Back when they both believed his NYADA application would be successful and he'd be leaving soon. Kurt had been, at first, disappointed by the pair of monogrammed towel sets. They were nice enough—absurdly high quality, undoubtedly expensive—but they were practical, not at all romantic. Back then he would have traded them for a single tatty old towel and something more heartfelt from Blaine. He hadn't said anything though, except 'thank you.' And in September, he'd been sure to pack the towels in his suitcase with his clothes while Blaine looked on. He could appreciate good quality towels, and he didn't want Blaine to think he was ungrateful for the gift, even though he would have preferred something more intimate.

But then, once he was in New York, freshly moved in to the loft, that first golden afternoon after washing off the cardboard dust and autumn sweat, he'd gotten out of the shower and reached for the bath sheet. In that moment, of his hand meeting the decadence of the terrycloth, he understood Blaine's gift.

Amidst the discolored tile and rusty porcelain of the old bathroom, he wrapped his naked, exhausted body in nearly six feet worth of luxurious, 802 grams-per-square-meter Turkish cotton, and it was a proxy for wrapping himself up in Blaine's arms. He'd closed his eyes, and the tip-tilt surrealism of being just another small town boy fumbling for his start in New York vanished into the sense memory of Blaine's skin against his. The closeness and comfort of it. He stood in the small, steamy room, closed his eyes, and he felt perfectly loved.

Kurt wraps himself in the same proxy now, hangs on tightly to the memory of what it meant to him then. The possibility of the real thing is here for him now—in theory—but this, the dense velvet texture of the towel, feels like all he may have, and he can't tell if it still feels like love.

Kurt dries off and moisturizes. He hangs his towel and shrugs on his bathrobe. Once he's gathered up his dirty clothes, it takes him another minute to steel himself to go back out.

When he returns to the living area, he finds Blaine looking miserable on the sofa, his own cheeks blotched and his eyes red and gleaming. Crumpled tissues lie on the futon beside him, one in his hand.

Kurt doesn't pause; he pretends he didn't see, just goes to his bedroom to get dressed. Guilt gnaws at him, along with the seething loneliness. And fragments of old anger catch and flare. Blaine shouldn't be so sad too, should he?

The loneliness wins, and guilt overwhelms Kurt's anger. For whatever reason, Blaine is sad. Maybe he's lonely too. Maybe he's missing his family and regrets coming. Regardless of the reason, Kurt doesn't want to leave things between them like this. Not on Christmas.

In fresh pajamas, with his hair only finger-combed from its towel-dried muss, Kurt goes back to the living room. He doesn't say anything about Blaine's red rimmed eyes. Smiles with all the affection he can summon (which is more than he expects), and he asks if Blaine would like to sleep with him tonight. "I know the futon isn't very comfortable," Kurt says. "And it's cold out here."

Blaine blinks up at him, and he nods. "Sure," he says.

Kurt helps him carry the spare bedding back to Kurt's bedroom. They put the fleece blanket back on the bed, and Blaine disappears to the bathroom to change into his night clothes.

#

Beside Kurt, a comfortable, friendly distance between them, Blaine lies on his side with his hands, palm-to-palm, beneath his cheek. He regards Kurt with a steady but weightless gaze. Kurt tries to read it, but it's the sort of look into which he could project any charitable emotion. He doesn't feel right assuming anything. At least it's better than the only other time they spent in this bed together: the first and last time. Kurt couldn't even look at Blaine that night.

"Is this—?" Kurt begins. Tries again. "Is this weird for you?"

A hitch of his shoulder and Blaine says, "Maybe not as much as you'd think. You?"

"It's weird," Kurt says, "but it's fine."

"I... meant what I said, Kurt. I'm here for you."

"I know," he says. The thickness of tears rises unbidden in Kurt's throat. "Thank you."

Blaine smiles, relieved. And Kurt wishes... Oh, he wishes it were that easy. But it's not. His heart is in conflicted pieces, jagged shards that dig in sharp if he breathes too deeply. Wanting Blaine despite all of it, wanting the memory of safety and love. Being grateful for what love still remains even as he resents its stubbornness, and all the while, he mourns what he's lost.

And sometimes it feels like that's all there is: the soul deep wound that takes all the breath from his lungs and all the strength from his limbs. There is part of him that still cannot believe it—sometimes it flatly refuses—and he has a moment of wondering if he's lost his mind to even consider that it happened: Blaine cheated on him. That _Blaine_ did that. He can't figure out where the falsehood in all of this mess lies, only that there must be one.

It takes so much energy, holding himself so that he doesn't end up lacerated from the inside out.

"I'm thinking of deferring my NYADA acceptance," Kurt says at last. It's easier than anything else he could say, though he wishes it weren't. Saying it out loud, he surprises himself.

Blaine shifts, one hand from beneath his cheek to lay it palm up on the bed between them. "Because of your Dad?" he asks.

Kurt looks at Blaine's open hand, but he doesn't reach for it. "Yeah," Kurt says. "I should... move home," he says. "Rachel will— god, she'll—she won't be happy."

"No..." Blaine says as if he's not sure what else to say.

"I should have stayed in Lima," Kurt says. It's not what he meant to say, but the words come up anyway, dredged up from the locker of things that he tries so hard not to think about—fears and regrets he definitely never intends to admit. But he's tired, and his eyes burn, and his head throbs, and he wonders how his body can possibly think crying again is a good idea. And he misses Blaine, even though Blaine is right there, inches in front of him, offering his hand. It's nonsense.

"No. Kurt, no. That's not true."

Kurt flicks his gaze up to meet Blaine's bewildered one. "I'm not blaming you," Kurt says. "For sending me on my way. I mean, my Dad was desperate for me to go. I was desperate to get out of there, but I... I didn't think it would cost me this much."

"It's not your fault," Blaine offers. "What's happened."

Kurt shakes his head. "It's not like I expect life to be fair, Blaine, but I just wish... I wish I could've held on to more, but it seems like there's always something slipping away, like my hands aren't big enough or..."

"So, you think if you give up New York and NYADA and come back to Ohio you'll get something back?"

"I don't know," Kurt says. It sounds so stupid when Blaine says it like that. "I don't know what I think anymore."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"Doesn't it?" Kurt asks. The logic of it is deranged, but he can't deny how it's all played out. "I get New York, the internship at Vogue, and then I lose you. I get NYADA, and now I'm losing my Dad."

Blaine reaches for him then; his fingertips press firmly against Kurt's wrist, four points of heat and human contact. He sounds so sure when he speaks: "You haven't lost me, Kurt. I know things are different between us, but you haven't lost me. And you don't know that you're losing your Dad. You heard what he said. They caught it early, he's going to be okay."

"But what if he's not?"

Blaine blinks, and he doesn't say anything.

"I'm not ready to be an orphan."

"You're not going to be."

"You don't know that. You _can't_."

Blaine purses his lips and bows his head.

"It's just, he's the one person... the only person... who's..."

"Kurt." Blaine's eyes are bright and wet. "He's not the only—"

" _Don't_ ," Kurt warns.

Blaine is quiet for a long time. He withdraws his hand, and his gaze drops to the mattress. When he speaks again, his words sound hollow and resigned, like all the happiness has drained out of him. "I'm sorry you're hurting, Kurt, and I'm sorry for my part in it."

But instead of rousing sympathy, the apology just annoys Kurt. "Stop apologizing," he says, too sharp and abruptly sick of Blaine's guilt. He rolls to his back, stares at the ceiling.

After another long silence between them, Blaine ventures more gently, almost as if he's querying Kurt's mood: "I've missed you."

And that only rouses a fresh batch of tears for Kurt to blink back and swallow down, bitter and wet. "Yeah."

This time, neither of them says it will be okay.

And it's within that moment of mutual rejection of the facile notion of 'okay', that the physical space between them transforms into far, far too much. The absence of Blaine aches fiercely, right down to the marrow of Kurt's bones, and it feels like his heart cramps in his chest. "Would you maybe..." Kurt asks in a rush. He turns his head toward Blaine to finish the question. "...hold me?"

Blaine's reply is prompt. "Of course, yes." Blaine rearranges himself. "Come here." He beckons, and Kurt goes into his arms easily, irresistibly, like the tide rushing up the shore, smoothing out the sand, washing away debris. At least it feels that way at first: relief, warmth, communion.

Blaine touches him carefully, much like before, chaste but familiar. But it's enough that the simple comfort soon begins to morph.

It may inevitable that it does. Part of Kurt isn't surprised at all. He turns his face further into the embrace and breathes against Blaine's neck. He closes his eyes. The scent of Blaine, the shape of him. Kurt finds his body urging him to tip his head up and kiss Blaine, to have more of what Blaine would so easily offer him—or simply let him take. But that would be... something different. It would threaten to make this into something more than what it should be. He's not forgiven Blaine yet. Still isn't sure how. But... Blaine is here for him, his Christmas gift even, and it's still Christmas.

Maybe he can be a little selfish and let Blaine ease his loneliness and heartache for now. Maybe it would ease Blaine's too. Kurt listens for his father's breathing. It's deep, even, and rough with light snores.

He gently guides Blaine's hand down from his shoulder to his hip. "Would you...?" his whispers so quietly it's barely audible.

But Blaine hears him. "Anything," Blaine says. He strokes lightly over Kurt's pajamas: up to his waist, and down to his thigh. Kurt's breaths come easier, deeper, without hurting quite so much. Kurt shifts beneath Blaine's hand, trying to reseat it closer to his groin. "Just tell me, Kurt," Blaine says.

But Kurt can't haul up the words. He just takes Blaine's hand in his own, and drags it over until the heat of Blaine's open palm is laid over the swelling length of his cock. With a soft hum of acceptance, Blaine turns his face and kisses Kurt's neck as he curls his fingers around the shape of Kurt's erection. Firm squeezes and short strokes with too much friction coax Kurt harder. Kurt gasps, once, twice, like he can't get enough air. And then he exhales in a heaving rush, can't hold in the moan that works its way out from around the pummeling beat of his heart.

Then Blaine's mouth is on his, hushing him. And, god, it's so fucking good, the tender warmth of Blaine's lips: it's like a key in a lock. But Kurt's not ready for that. He presses his own lips together and turns his face from Blaine's. Hesitant, Blaine pulls back, and his hand stills. Kurt shakes his head, dismisses Blaine's concern. "Just— Don't stop," he says, "Please."

Blaine nods, and releases his hold on Kurt in order to tug down the waistband of Kurt's pajama pants, and he fumbles with the buttons of Kurt's top one handed. Upon Kurt's bared skin, Blaine's fingertips skim down and down, dragging bright filaments of sensation from Kurt's sternum to his belly; and Kurt can't breathe until Blaine wraps a snug fist around Kurt's naked shaft, and then he gasps so hard he nearly chokes. It soon turns to a groan of relief at how expertly Blaine's hand pulls up to the head of his cock: Blaine's agile fingers know the precise pressure and play to make Kurt swear. Kurt turns his face toward his far wall, tries to keep his voice muffled to a whimper as Blaine's hand comes back down, just as skillfully, but he cannot contain a surprised, staccato, "Ah!"

Kurt didn't actually forget how good Blaine was at this, but somehow he's expected that Blaine would've forgotten. Along the way, Kurt just assumed, because— Kurt stops the thought there. Clearly, Blaine hasn't, not at all, so Kurt's assumptions are proved entirely wrong. Just As Blaine's mouth proves to be entirely as clever as it's always been upon his throat—soft, open kisses punctuated with the teasing scrape of his teeth. Kurt's lungs heave like bellows. His hands scrabble for purchase in the bedding, and his spine tenses. Shoulders, head, and heels brace against the mattress.

The kisses Blaine lays down Kurt's chest are placed with less finesse. Eager and messy, they leave a tingling trail of wetness, chilling and tightening across Kurt's skin, even as Kurt grows hotter. Pleasure surges with each wonderful drag of Blaine's grasp, and each press of Blaine's lips to the sensitive skin of Kurt's belly. And even though Kurt knows exactly where Blaine's mouth is headed, when Blaine's tongue sweeps, soft and slick, across the head of his cock; Kurt cannot muffle his yelp.

It was far too loud. Kurt freezes as he hears his father's breathing change, the snores stop. "Wait," Kurt whispers, and Blaine stops, lifts his head—but not so far that Kurt doesn't still shiver beneath the warm rush of his breath. Kurt lets go of one fistful of duvet and tentatively lays his hand upon Blaine's head. Strange that this once casual touch feels like more of a trespass than other, more immediately intimate things.

With Kurt's hand cautionary upon him, Blaine waits. He caresses Kurt's thighs through the fabric of his pajamas, kisses slowly across Kurt's belly. Kurt stares up at his ceiling, aches and breathes until he hears the snoring resume. "Try to relax," Blaine murmurs against Kurt's skin.

He won't look down at Blaine. He can't bear to see Blaine right now, whatever tenderness there may in his gaze—or desire. "Okay," he says, and Blaine goes back down. Kurt grabs a pillow to hold over his face.

It's hard to breathe through the stifling barrier; his own exhalations are trapped, thick and sweltering against his face. But Kurt keeps the barrier close to muffle his voice, lifts it just enough to let in little sips of cool air when he grows too desperate. Between his legs, he feels Blaine settle his weight. One hand is light upon Kurt's hip, the other tugs at the fabric of his pajama pants, making more room. Blaine's breath is soft over the top of one thigh, and Kurt can't see anything.

But he can feel _everything_. Blaine's lips press to the underside of his cock, right near the root of it, and then Blaine's tongue is there too, gliding wide up the length of him. Kurt presses his groan into the pillow.

Blaine takes him in, draws all of Kurt's focus down to the enveloping bliss of his mouth. It's all wet heat, sweet suction, and the muffled burr of Blaine's moan. It's a sound Kurt knows so well, but he's never really noticed it before, not the way he is now, for it's a sound Blaine has always made when he does this: a soft, pleased hum, deep in his throat. Kurt's not sure it's even a conscious response.

And somehow that stray realization catches, barbed and sharp. Snags another thought, and not a pleasant one. Kurt's pleasure falters as he wonders if Blaine made that noise when he... with— _"His name was Eli."_ Did Blaine moan like this for Eli?

Kurt gasps in silent denial, hard enough he expects to pull the pillow stuffing through the cotton sateen of the pillowcase and all the way into his lungs. "No," he whimpers. He's not thinking about that. Not thinking about Eli or whatever Blaine did with him, or to him, or had done to himself, or... No.

Blindly, Kurt reaches down for Blaine with one hand. Tries to orient himself right here: his hand on the base of Blaine's skull, urging him faster, and Blaine's mouth snug around his cock, undeniably eager. He tries to find the thread of his pleasure again.

Blaine works diligently. But his rhythm is erratic, breaking at irregular intervals and whenever Kurt tenses too much against him. It disrupts each plateau Kurt finds. It's—in a way—exhausting, and it goes on and on.

Until Kurt's lungs are pulling so desperately for air, Kurt has to fling the pillow aside. His body's strung out and hot and there's a deafening rush in his ears, and he's starting to shake and feel dizzy, and he feels so close. But he's not coming, not yet, and why is it taking so long? He just wants to come.

He bucks up, pushing into Blaine's mouth roughly, trying to wrest some control from Blaine, to take the orgasm he wants. And that takes Blaine by surprise: he gags—Blaine never gags—and flinches, and then there's the sharp scrape of teeth where there should never be.

Kurt winces and swears. And Blaine pulls off him hurriedly, coughing into the bedding, mumbling an apology, and patting at Kurt's legs. Kurt tugs at his hair, tries to move Blaine back. "It's okay, okay. I just... it's taking me longer," Kurt says. How did they get so out of sync? Blaine's mouth is usually enough.

Blaine resists the pull, doesn't look up at Kurt as he asks, "Where's your lube?"

A chill of apprehension. "Nightstand," Kurt says anyway.

Blaine kneels up and leans over, rummages through the top drawer until he finds it, tosses it to the bed. Then he helps Kurt get out of his pajama bottoms.

The cold air pimples his skin as Kurt shakes his ankle free of the cuff. Blaine loosely folds the thin cotton pants, sets them aside. Kurt feels overexposed, too naked. He still can't meet Blaine's eye, but he doesn't think Blaine is even trying to make eye-contact, so maybe that's just... how it is right now. Worst of all, Kurt can't speak to say what he doesn't want—Blaine actually fucking him—as Blaine touches his leg, coaxing Kurt to open his thighs, but Kurt doesn't part them far.

"Do you tru—?" Blaine starts. Stops. Shakes his head at himself and starts again. "Is this all right, Kurt?"

It's the sort of question for which Kurt knows he's meant to answer 'yes' but he can't. His lungs feel too small when he inhales, but he forces himself to look at Blaine, and he forces himself to speak: "No, I don't want..." Despite his intention to be clear, he trails off uselessly.

"What?"

Kurt swallows the lump in his throat. Tries to anyway. It doesn't go down.

"Tell me what you don't want." Blaine's looking back at him now, steady and sure. And that's not right, not really.

Kurt can only close his eyes and whisper, "I don't want you to fuck me—"

"Okay," Blaine says.

"—or rim me"

"...okay." This comes more softly.

"You can touch me, but I... don't want your fingers inside me," Kurt opens his eyes. "And I don't want you to kiss me on the mouth again, and I don't want to... reciprocate."

Blaine nods and smiles—far, far too easily, but his smile crimps at the corners and his eyes flicker into something else for a moment. It's such a brief falter, Kurt would have missed it if he weren't looking. Quickly, the sheen of confidence is back on Blaine's face, but behind his smile, he's wounded.

It strikes something hot in Kurt—not lust, but anger—that Blaine has the gall to be wounded here, as if Kurt's done something to hurt him. Impelled by that flash of indignation, Kurt can't stop himself. He presses the wound just a little bit, even though it feels like he's stabbing himself in the chest when he says it: "I don't want those things because I'm not yours anymore. Do you understand?"

_It's your fault_ , he doesn't say. _I wish I were still yours_ , he doesn't say. _I wanted to be yours forever. I wish you hadn't broken us, because I really need you right now._ The burn of his anger settles behind his eyes; the flash of heat fades and retreats back into the more familiar grief Kurt's been living with since Blaine broke his heart.

"Kurt," Blaine says gently. "I know." His voice is fine as thin cotton thread, as if he heard every unspoken thing. And since Kurt only expected another apology, he doesn't know what to do with this quiet acknowledgment. "I'll give you as much as you'll let me—as much as you want—and no more, okay?"

Kurt blinks the twinge back from his eyes, bites his lip, and nods.

Blaine summons a lopsided smile that's more genuine if still tentative. In a different context, it might even look flirtatious. "So, can you tell me what you _do_ want from me?" Blaine asks.

Kurt wonders if there is something he may give to Blaine, who is still, after everything (perhaps especially after everything) so eager to please. It still feels selfish, like Kurt's overreaching, like these aren't his words to speak any longer. But he hopes he still knows Blaine well enough that they'll be welcome. "Suck my cock," Kurt says softly, "please?" His voice falls to a whisper on the next: "Make me come." He reaches down and drags his thumb across Blaine's bottom lip, as tenderly as he's ever touched Blaine. "And I want you to swallow."

Blaine's eyes are dark and solemn. He doesn't respond immediately, and in that span of silence, Kurt hears an echo between them, unspoken, of the way Blaine would once accept a direction with a simple (although it was never a simple thing really), _'Yes, Kurt.'_ But Blaine doesn't say it. Blaine says, instead, "All right." And Kurt wonders if this means Blaine is no longer his either.

"You can... take as much time as you need to," Kurt says as Blaine moves, kneeling between Kurt's legs, nudging Kurt's thighs apart as he does so.

That earns Kurt a smile. Soft and self-conscious. "I'm just out of practice," Blaine says. He leans forward and touches Kurt's cheek. "I don't mean to tease."

Despite that, Blaine does take his time. He doesn't go straight back to Kurt's cock. Instead he kisses and caresses Kurt's body for a time, rubs some warmth back into Kurt's muscles, rouses him back to more straightforward desire. While Blaine touches, Kurt has to fight with himself not to reach for a kiss of his own, not to ask for more, not to seek Blaine's bare skin with his hands, or reach down to feel how hard Blaine is for him. And Blaine is gentle, like he's trying to keep some invisible film between them. Something he won't push too hard against or pierce.

Soon enough though, Blaine is sliding down the bed, lowering himself to his elbows, and hovering over Kurt's cock again. And Kurt is tightening his fists in the bedding, trying very hard not to plead, because Blaine said he isn't teasing him. But Blaine is... not actually taking Kurt's cock back into his mouth.

The tip of Blaine's nose skates across the tender skin between hip and groin, his cheek brushes Kurt's shaft, and Kurt's eyelids flutter shut. Ticklishly, the scarce contact moves down to bump and drag against his balls. There's a rush of warm air, the tightening of Blaine's hand where it rests upon Kurt's hip, and the vibration of a moan. And then there's Blaine's face, pressed between his legs, nuzzling and mouthing his balls, breathing him in deeply, and it takes every remaining piece of Kurt's will not to reach down and tangle his hands into Blaine's hair.

Instead he whispers, "Go on," between quick, hiccuping breaths. His muscles twitch and tense as he tries to keep still.

"Try to relax," Blaine tells him, for the second time that night.

That pulls an amused huff from Kurt's lungs.

"You still want my mouth?" Blaine asks, and, if it weren't for the seriousness of his tone (it's as if Blaine needs reassurance in the moment) Kurt may believe Blaine is teasing.

The first word that comes to Kurt's tongue is 'always', but while that seems true right now, it's more than what he can promise; saying it would mean things he doesn't know if he _can_ mean. Instead he sighs out an emphatic, " _Yes_."

Between his legs, Blaine's weight shifts, pinning one of Kurt's legs, and Kurt opens his eyes to see Blaine reaching for the lube. Then, another shift, and Blaine's mouth is back on him, gently opening and sucking his testicles into his mouth, one at a time. Blaine slips a wet fingertip to press up behind against his perineum, right where it sends a sharp shock of pleasure to climb Kurt's spine. As Blaine presses and rubs while he rolls Kurt's balls over his tongue, that shock turns even hotter and diffuses, flooding Kurt's belly with urgency. Sweat prickles across Kurt's forehead and along the sides of his nose. He bites his lips closed against a low moan, and Blaine answers with a contented hum around his balls.

"Blaine," Kurt whispers. The muscles in his thighs jump as Blaine's finger edges farther back. The light touch grazing his rim is an excruciating pleasure. It's never quite the same when Kurt touches himself, but Blaine's fingertip, venturing—almost timidly, but entirely knowingly—to nestle into the center of his anus, sets a fierce blaze beneath Kurt's skin. "Oh, god," Kurt mutters under his breath, for that blaze is twisting up tight in his belly and tight in his balls. It won't take much more.

Blaine releases his balls with an obscene sounding, "Mmm," licks a zigzag up the underside of Kurt's cock to flatten his tongue just under the crown where the sensation is irresistible. Then he jiggles his fingertip. And Kurt feels himself begin to fray, helplessly unspooling into his orgasm so slowly, it feels like time is moving frame-by-frame instead of all at once. When Blaine's lips close around the head of his cock, and Blaine sucks hard, one long perfect pull, and sinks all the way down. Kurt barely grabs the pillow in time to hold it over his face as he comes—ecstatically, noisily—wracked down to his very cells.

Everything is fuzzy for a while after. Kurt's mostly just aware of his heartbeat, knocking against his eardrums from the inside out—and how hard it is to breathe.

But then Blaine's peeling the pillow away from Kurt's hot face. He smooths Kurt's damp hair back from his forehead, and Kurt tries to slow his gulps for air. He begins trembling uncontrollably—shaking really. His teeth chatter.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks.

Kurt replies with an inarticulate whimper. His hands are shaking too.

So Blaine pulls Kurt into his arms and holds on tightly. Tens of minutes pass before Kurt's breathing calms, but he's still quivering and twitching like he's dying.

"Better?" Blaine asks.

Kurt shrugs. Can't speak. Clings to Blaine's pajamas, his warmth, his smell; because Blaine still feels like home.

Blaine holds him longer until the tremors stop. Blaine's perfectly hard against his hip, but Kurt doesn't reach for him. Eventually Blaine gives him a kiss on the corner of his mouth and draws away, leaving Kurt cold. He asks, "Do you want me to come back?"

Kurt nods.

Before he leaves, Blaine pulls the covers back up over Kurt, then he goes to the bathroom. Kurt tugs his pajama bottoms back on under the covers, refastens the buttons of his top, plumps his pillow, and closes his eyes. None of the thoughts swirling in his head are ones he wishes to indulge. He distracts himself with daydreams of liveblogging Fashion Week in September.

It's a long time before Blaine returns. He wakes Kurt from a drowse as he climbs under the covers. He scoots close to kiss Kurt on the cheek—his breath is minty and fresh, his lips damp. Against Kurt's thigh, Blaine is soft now. Kurt opens his eyes to see Blaine's wry smile. "Good night, Kurt," Blaine whispers, and he turns away, moving to the far side of the bed, rolling over and settling on his side, facing the window.

To Blaine's back, Kurt says, "Thank you."

#

Having Blaine in his bed like this—remote despite their recent intimacy—has Kurt wide awake, blinking into the dark. Insomnia is nothing new, and insomnia because of Blaine is the usual variety. He restrains himself from tossing and turning. Considers getting up. Rejects it because that would be too much like that awful night in October, when he couldn't stay in bed with Blaine, and they didn't talk, and everything hurt so badly it felt like the world was ending. So Kurt stays. He doesn't wish for Blaine to feel abandoned after what he did for Kurt.

But, _oh_.

Maybe Blaine does. Kurt looks over, peers through the gloom at the shape of Blaine's back beneath the covers, backlit by the low light of the window. There's nothing to read there, except Kurt can't shake the sense that Blaine's shutting him out. Kurt clenches his hand closed to resist the urge to reach over, to ask or offer or...? He can't just assume that his touch would be welcome; he can't just take without asking.

(And if that's true, then what did he just do? He asked; Blaine said yes, but—

But.

But what exactly?)

Kurt bites his lip and the few feet between them seems a gulf. Different from before though. It's not a space that feels desperate to be crossed, but a space that forms a barrier: a defensive boundary. It's not a gulf but a moat. After Blaine's openness all day and his generosity tonight, Kurt turns cold with the realization: he may have taken too much and given too little.

The silent tears well up unchallenged this time—he deserves these ones—hot and raw, and his heart squeezes in on itself painfully. He has to fix this. "Blaine?" Kurt whispers.

"Hmm?" Blaine doesn't roll to face him.

"You're awake?"

"So are you," he says.

Kurt sniffs. "Yeah." A rivulet of tears runs along his nose and catches on his top lip. He reaches a hand toward Blaine, not far enough to bridge the distance, just lets his hand rest loosely upon the cool sheets. A sick swell of shame crests up Kurt's throat. He's not this kind of person, not someone who abuses a boy who—for all that he hurt Kurt—remains inutterably precious. "I'm so sorry," Kurt says.

"Hmm? For what?" Blaine asks, turning his head toward the ceiling. Kurt can make out his profile.

"For before," Kurt tries to explain. He clenches a handful of the sheet beneath his fingers. "I was... unkind."

"You weren't," Blaine says, but he sighs before reassuring, "It's fine."

"No," Kurt says. "It's not fine. Blaine, I care about you, and I don't want to hurt you—or punish you." Kurt ventures to roll forward, shifts across the mattress until he can lay his hand upon Blaine's shoulder.

"I don't want that either," Blaine says, a whisper as if he's imparting a secret. He leans back into Kurt's touch, brings a hand up to reach over his shoulder and covers Kurt's fingertips with his own.

"So, I'm sorry," Kurt says. Emboldened by Blaine's touch, he shifts closer again until he can press a kiss to Blaine's fingertips. He lets his lips linger upon Blaine's knuckles in a moment of longing colored by indecision. It would be so easy to pretend.

"I forgive you," Blaine says. And it comes so easily and without rancor, perfectly heartfelt—perfectly Blaine—it makes Kurt wonder what sort of hurt Blaine wouldn't forgive him.

Kurt smiles, moves his hand farther, over Blaine's shoulder to stroke down his chest, feels how Blaine's heart beats, strong and steady. "So, may I reciprocate now?" Kurt dares to offer. A pause for a new breath. "Would you want that?"

Blaine catches Kurt's hand in his own, stills its motion over his heart and fits his fingers between Kurt's, and they fit as well as always, as if their hands were made for each other. Once, it could almost make Kurt believe in something more than he does. 

"Kurt," Blaine says, a hint of sadness tinging his voice. "You don't have to. I know we're not— You're not obliged."

Kurt leans near and presses a kiss behind Blaine's ear, and draws his hand across, to brush his fingertips over the cotton-clad shape of Blaine's nipple. Feels it stiffen. "Let me make you feel good," Kurt says, and adds in a lower voice, with an attempt at seductive playfulness. "You should know by now that I rarely do anything from a sense of obligation."

Blaine huffs what sounds like a silent laugh, but speaks with a hint of sarcasm, "Well, when you put it that way..." It's affectionate enough, but it still sounds like deflection.

Perhaps he hasn't made his case well enough. Blaine needs to understand this is not an offer motivated by pity. "I want to, Blaine. You should have something more for Christmas from me than an old book of sad plays."

"I love the book, Kurt."

"It's not enough though. Not for you."

Blaine tips back toward Kurt, and Kurt gives him room. Blaine falls supine and looks up at Kurt with wide glittering eyes. Kurt sees him swallow hard. "I would like that," he admits softly. "More than I can say. But only if it's something you want, too. I don't want to hurt you again either."

"I know." Kurt brushes his fingertips across Blaine's temple and cheek and down his throat. "I just want to be close to you. We can we pretend. Just for tonight, for Christmas."

"Pretend?" Blaine asks, so sweetly, Kurt feels another tear slip free.

"That you didn't. Hurt us. That we're still in love."

Blaine nods and doesn't speak again. So Kurt leans down and kisses him, open mouthed, wet and salty with his own tears, and something inside him just _gives_. He can't hold anything back from the kiss. All the months of tightly wound up hurt and anger, yearning and missing, find relief in the kiss. His tears are no longer sad, and it's so good he has to withdraw to catch his breath and whisper, "Oh my god." And then Blaine is surging up against him, kissing him back and pulling him down.

Blaine breaks the kiss next, murmurs so hot and impatient against Kurt's mouth, "Want to feel you, Kurt. Against me, please."

"Yeah," Kurt says, sits up and back so he can strip his pajama top off. Blaine does the same and then wriggles out of his pajama pants, while Kurt hauls his own off.

"Jesus," Blaine whispers, his gaze roving hungrily over Kurt's bared torso. "You're so—" He falls back into the pillows and reaches out. "God, come here."

Kurt goes down into Blaine's arms, lowers his weight against Blaine's warmth and silken skin. It's been so long since he's felt this: the incomparable closeness of being pressed and held, skin to skin. He nudges one thigh between Blaine's and swivels his hips until they're pressed up close against one another, hard and hot and so fucking perfect. Kurt pants for enough air to speak. Perspiration pricks down his neck and across his shoulders and chest. Kurt shifts again, braces his elbows against the mattress on either side of Blaine's neck, just above his shoulders. And then Kurt tangles his fingers into Blaine's hair, and Blaine's hands come around the back of his ribcage, splayed wide.

Staring down into Blaine's face, Kurt sees adoration and gratitude and such openness. A slow grinding twist of his hips makes Blaine's eyelids flutter shut. "Like this?" Kurt asks.

"Like that."

"You want lube?" Kurt asks. He can't remember where Blaine put it, but a little less friction will help this last longer.

"Yeah," Blaine says, and Kurt loses one of the hands on his back as Blaine gropes through the bedding.

It's awkward then, Kurt lifting up while Blaine squeezes far too much slippery gel onto his hand. Kurt barely stifles a startled noise at the cold shock of it, as Blaine smears it between them, across their bellies and around their cocks. "Shh," Blaine says.

"Uh huh," Kurt says, and settles back against Blaine with a soft sigh. Blaine lets out a pleased hum. "This is going to get messy," Kurt whispers into Blaine's ear, making him shiver. Then he does a short, whole body drag up Blaine's body, and then back down again, sways and rolls his pelvis in a way that makes Blaine groan long and low. Blaine's hands are restless upon his back and shoulders, sliding down greedily past his waist to his ass and cupping high behind his thighs.

It takes them a while to find their old rhythm and their groove. Not too fast—both to keep quiet and to draw this out. Blaine hooks one leg behind Kurt's knee, and grinds up lazily against each of Kurt's twisting thrusts down. His body remembers what Blaine's body likes, and they kiss for a while as they move together, indulging and nurturing every wave of bliss that wells up and burns between them, until Kurt needs all of his breath, because, as wonderful as this is, it's a laborious pace to maintain. He buries his face against Blaine's neck, inhales the scent of clean sweat mingled with the mellow warmth of Blaine's cologne.

So slow, Kurt keeps everything so slow and tempered. And he's never been so hot; heat scorches between them as they move, slipping and squelching with sweat and too much lube, and Kurt's trying to keep his breathing quiet, too, which is making him doubly dazed with pleasure and breathlessness. And it might just kill him to keep doing this. And then Blaine is sliding his open mouth from Kurt's cheekbone to his ear and murmuring, "You feel so good—god, I've missed you so much. Missed this with you," and Kurt isn't sure Blaine's pretending at all.

#

Afterward, Kurt feels like he's used every muscle in his body. The weight of his fatigue is immense. It's a herculean effort to reach for the box of tissues. Kurt takes extra care lifting himself off Blaine. Their skin sticks and comes apart reluctantly, and Blaine whimpers softly at the loss of contact.

Neither of them speaks while Kurt wipes up the worst of the mess on Blaine and then tends to himself. Ideally, he'd excuse himself to the bathroom. But whatever world exists outside the curtain of his bedroom may as well be another dimension right now. Kurt desperately wants to remain here in the afterglow with Blaine, even if his skin will hate him for the next week.

Once he's done as well as he can, and the cold is seeping back into his skin, banishing the warmth of sex, Kurt pulls the covers up over both of them. Blaine is quiet and tentative, touching Kurt, but not lying as close as he would have in the past. His head is on the pillow next to Kurt, not on Kurt's pillow or Kurt's shoulder. Perhaps Blaine is still guarding his heart too. As much as Kurt wishes it were not necessary, he understands that this—what they've shared—is not a prelude to the redemption of their romance, but rather an oasis of shared succor. It's wise for them both to withdraw.

But not yet. Kurt coaxes Blaine into his arms, and Blaine rests his head upon Kurt's chest, and it's simply not enough. It's a terrible irony, how the familiar shape of Blaine in his embrace—the feeling he wants to hold on to—makes it harder to keep the unwanted sadness from creeping back along with the winter chill. Some true affection lingers though. Kurt's heart swells with as much tenderness as regret. He strokes Blaine's hair. "When I left you in Ohio, I thought you'd take better care of my boyfriend," he says gently.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says.

Kurt accepts the apology this time and replies, "So am I."


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in a long time, Kurt sleeps past sunrise. He stirs and rouses briefly when Blaine shifts out from under his arm. He squints in the sunlight long enough to watch Blaine clamber groggily from the bed and pull on his pajamas, but Kurt falls back into unconsciousness before Blaine's even tied his robe.

He wakes again when he hears his Dad's laughter. That's enough to banish the cobwebs of slumber. Kurt sits up and then leans over the side of the bed for where his pajama top lies crumpled and cold on the floor. He pulls it over his head, not bothering to unbutton it. He finishes dressing, shivering within the layers of chilly fabric.

There's a stuffiness to his head he associates with having gotten too much sleep, even though all he did get (he checks his phone) was an uninterrupted six hours. It's an uncommon luxury for his brain. He hesitantly examines his morning-after conscience, expecting to find some extra helping of regret for last night, but he can't find any. That's a remarkably deep relief.

When he ventures out of his room, he finds Blaine and his father sitting in the kitchen. They've got coffee mugs and empty, crumb filled plates before them. The scents of savory cooked eggs and smoky toast hang in the air. Friendly conversation between them dwindles when Kurt says, "Good morning."

Blaine looks up at him and smiles tightly. There's more than a little reservation behind it. His Dad asks, "Did you sleep well?"

Kurt walks behind Blaine to the sink, trails his fingers across the back of Blaine's shoulders casually as he passes. He's not sure what the protocol is right now, but it's all he can think of to reassure. He doesn't have a sense from his father of whether he knows Blaine spent the night in Kurt's bed or not. Has no inkling of what his father would think of that. He washes his hands before turning to the espresso machine. He unscrews the reservoir lid with a faint pop. It's still warm. Looks like he only just missed it.

"Better than I have for a while," Kurt replies. He takes the handle and levers the filter loose, then he taps the coffee grounds into the bottom of the sink. He glances at Blaine and says, "Thanks."

Blaine presses his lips together and looks down at his plate.

"You've already eaten?" Kurt asks. The answer is obvious enough, but he's—not jealous, not exactly—but ineffably _aggrieved_ that he missed breakfast with his Dad, with them both. He can sleep later; he should have set an alarm. He sighs heavily.

"I'll cook you something," Blaine says with a mild note of defensiveness. "I just scrambled some eggs for your Dad and me. I didn't want to wake you, you were—"

"I wish you had," Kurt says. "So I could have joined you, but—" Kurt closes his eyes, takes breath. "Yes, please, that'd be nice." He leaves the espresso machine to do its thing and goes to the fridge to pour himself a glass of juice. Then he sits down with his Dad while Blaine washes the frying pan.

"Sorry, kiddo," his Dad says. "But knowing you, you probably needed the sleep."

Kurt shrugs and nods. "I'd just liked to have had breakfast with you, Dad, before you leave."

"Hey, I'm not gone yet."

"Yeah. I know, it's just—"

"It's okay," says his Dad, and he reaches across the table and covers Kurt's hand with his own.

"How many eggs?" Blaine asks.

Kurt turns his hand beneath his Dad's and squeezes his Dad's fingers. Then he retrieves his hand and picks up his orange juice. "Two's fine," he says to Blaine.

"You two have a good night?" his Dad asks, softly enough that it's clear the question is for Kurt, but not so softly that Blaine won't hear it. The words are simple enough, not loaded with anything in particular. His Dad isn't teasing or judging or assuming.

"Mmm," Kurt says over the rim of his glass. He flicks his gaze to Blaine, whose shoulders tense. "Eventually," Kurt says, "yes."

Kurt sees the corner of Blaine's lips twitch.

Which is encouraging, but Kurt doesn't want to think about last night too much right now or what reservations Blaine may be harboring. He has his Dad for few enough hours now. "So how are you feeling this morning?" he asks, and they discuss the details of the day to come. His Dad is catching a train down to D.C. just before noon. He's got that appointment with the oncologist at John Hopkins to coordinate treatment options for when he gets back to work after the holiday break.

The eggs Blaine serves are perfect: fluffy, moist but not runny, and seasoned well. He's been practicing, and Kurt is sure to compliment him.

#

Kurt makes sure to fill all the empty space in his Dad's suitcase with holiday leftovers. Even tucks in one of Blaine's cookies. All three of them go to the train station to see his Dad off. His Dad hugs him long and tight. "I love you, Kurt," he says. "Take the train down sometime, if you can."

"I love you too," Kurt says, and he holds on a little longer, but he doesn't cry.

Then his Dad gives Blaine a looser hug and thanks him. Blaine's eyes are bright when his Dad lets go. "And I'll be seeing you when I get back to Ohio," his Dad says. 

Once the train has departed, Kurt suggests he and Blaine walk the three and half blocks to Times Square. He needs to blow off some energy. Before they get underway, Kurt asks Blaine if he'd like to grab a coffee and pastry at the Starbucks in Grand Central Terminal first, to fuel their walk, but Blaine says he'd prefer to go somewhere unique—more New York. So they start walking and wait for something to catch Blaine's interest. 

They end up stopping in at D'espresso because it looks cool. (Blaine says he recognizes the bookshelf print tiles running along the floors and up the walls from the internet.) "Well, if it's internet famous, then by all means, let's check it out," Kurt says. He's walked past it enough times, he may as well try it.

It's small and loud, with just five white tables making a narrow rank along a wall-spanning dark upholstered bench. Opposite the bench, facing each table, are clear acrylic chairs with bowl shaped seats. What Kurt can only describe as Russian hip hop shreds the cafe atmosphere. They stand at the counter, scanning the menu board and the contents of the glass topped pastry cabinet. Neither of the staff ask to take their order. Kurt sighs and raises his hand. He determinedly does _not_ snap, just calls out, "Excuse me?" The girl at the register ignores him in favor of her phone, and the barista leans back against the counter and glares at them like they're interrupting something important—even though they're the only customers at the counter. Kurt has to repeat himself three times, followed by a, "We'd like to order now, please."

The barista—who, with the ornate snake tattoos looping his forearms looks more like he should be in some manner of organized crime—finally comes over to them with a flat expression, wipes his hands on his apron, and says, "What do you want?"

Kurt bites his tongue against several sarcastic replies, all the while marveling at how the Lima Bean would have fired his ass in half a second if he'd been half this surly with a customer. He's not entirely unsympathetic, but the coffee had better be good. Kurt orders a mocha for himself and turns to Blaine to invite him to place his order. It's been long enough, it might've changed again; Kurt doesn't wish to assume. Turns out it hasn't. Then Kurt orders a croissant for himself and Blaine asks for a _pain au chocolat_.

"Oh my god," Blaine says, _sotto voce_ , as they move to the free table near the milk and sugar station. Blaine takes the booth side, and Kurt sits down across from him. "It's like they don't even want our money."

"Well, you wanted a real New York experience," Kurt says. "This is what I call reverse psychology salesmanship."

Blaine laughs. "D'espresso, more like D'epresso."

With a roll of his eyes, Kurt groans obligingly. "Too obvious, but still clever. You get points."

Blaine smiles more brightly than he has all morning.

"And I have to admit," Kurt says. "The grumpy New York gangster barista in the internet famous cafe with weird Eastern European rap music? That makes for a better story to take home than yet another Starbucks visit, so I commend you on your adventurous spirit. I doubt I would have stepped in here on my own."

As they drink their coffee—which is truly excellent, so Kurt forgives the barista his sour demeanor—Kurt has to cover a yawn. Unfortunately, the coffee's not helping him perk up, and the thumping music is making his head swim. Six hours was not enough to erase months of lost sleep. But at least he hasn't cried yet today. That's got to count for something.

"So speaking of home. How are things with you?" Kurt asks. He gets bits and pieces over the phone, but nothing that offers much insight or a whole picture of where Blaine is. "I'm guessing your NYADA application is pretty solid. Shame they didn't cast you as Danny Zuko though, huh?"

"Oh, yeah... well," Blaine says, as if that's the explanation.

"What happened?" Kurt asks. "I don't think you ever told me that story."

"Um," Blaine says, completely serious now. No trace of a smile graces his lips, just nerves and determination. "They wanted to, but—"

"Oh, no, don't tell me it was because you're shorter than Marley."

"What? No," Blaine says, "And I don't think—" He shakes his head. "That wasn't a factor. I just, uh. I didn't want the role."

"Blaine Warbler," Kurt says affectionately, "are you telling me you _turned down_ the lead in the school play? God, to have the luxury of turning it down. I can't imagine how—"

"No," Blaine cuts him off. "I don't imagine you can."

Kurt frowns and leans back in the low-backed plastic stool. "What am I missing here?"

"It's nothing we can talk about, Kurt. Don't worry about it."

"A secret? Now you have to tell me," Kurt teases with a smile, trying to draw one from Blaine.

But Blaine doesn't smile. "You said you didn't want to talk about us."

"Wait, that was about us?" Kurt asks. "Are you saying you didn't take the role because of me?"

"Partly, yes," Blaine says, and there's a hardness in his eyes and an edge to his voice.

"Are you... mad at me?" Kurt asks. He's more incredulous than accusatory, for he keeps seeing hints of it, and it still doesn't make a lot of sense. This morning he can't summon any outrage of his own.

Something like relief softens Blaine's gaze. "Sometimes," he says, "but not right now."

"I— Okay. Um." Kurt presses his lips closed and turns his cup in its saucer, three rotations before ending with the handle at three o'clock. He lets go and places his fingertips on the edge of the the table. "I don't know what to say."

Blaine regards Kurt with curiosity. "Do you actually want to know?"

It takes a moment for Kurt to determine the answer to that, but Kurt finds that he does. "Yes."

"Okay." Blaine sighs, glances away for a moment. Then back to Kurt nervously. "It was... during that time when you weren't returning my calls or my texts. I didn't know _anything_ about where we were. If we were even broken up or what. If you'd ever talk to me again." Blaine looks down and runs a fingertip along the edge of his napkin, speaks slowly, "I was in a... really bad place, Kurt. Taking on a romantic lead, it felt dishonest."

An undefined pathos rises in Kurt, an uncomfortable knot in his heart, as Kurt studies Blaine and begins to understand. "You're serious."

Blaine blinks at him. "Yes."

"I had no idea." Kurt reaches across the table, offers his hand, palm up.

"I wouldn't expect you to. You wouldn't talk to me." Blaine looks at Kurt's hand, starts to reach back, but stops, leaves his hand idle beside his plate.

"I _couldn't_ talk to you. There's a difference."

Blaine shrugs and sips his coffee.

Kurt retrieves his hand and unwraps a curl of pastry from his croissant. "The problem was, most of the things I wanted to say to you then were things I never imagined I'd ever want to say to you, never to _you_. They were things I could never say to someone I loved the way I'd loved you.

"I was so angry, Blaine, I didn't trust myself not to say something I'd never be able to take back. Even as angry as I was, there was still part of me that..." Kurt trails off, scowling at the words that still won't arrange themselves, about how he still loved Blaine even when it felt like he was supposed to hate him. How he wanted him even when he couldn't bear the thought of him. The emotions were like magnets with poles repelling each other. He couldn't resolve any of it into something clear and sensible. "I didn't want to hurt you. I was terrified of hurting you, so I thought a clean break would be easiest for us both. I thought it was the right thing—the adult thing—to do."

Blinking rapidly, Blaine nods in acknowledgment of Kurt's words. "There was nothing clean about it for me. You left me not knowing for so long. I didn't know if there was any hope to hang on to, or if I should just give up. Kurt, it... It _did_ hurt. It felt like I'd become less than nothing to you."

The shine of excess moisture gathers in Blaine's eyes, a bright crescent underline. In the face of Blaine's honest pain, with the knowledge that Kurt had some part in it, Kurt's heart aches in sympathy. "Oh, god," Kurt says. "You'll never mean nothing to me, no matter what, okay? I should have told you something, Blaine. I just… I couldn't. I'm so sorry."

Blaine bows his head. He wipes below his eyes with a knuckle and sniffs. "Okay," he says. "All right."

"All right?" Kurt gives a tentative smile.

"Yeah," Blaine says, and tiny smile wobbles at the corners of his lips.

A relieved pause comes between them, then, filled by the clatter of the cafe and the relentless punch of the music. When they begin to talk again, it's about student council and what Blaine's been doing there with Sam's support as his vice president (and Sugar and Tina and some other names Kurt doesn't recognize). Kurt listens as he pulls apart his croissant, bite by bite. He tells Blaine he's proud of him, and by the way Blaine smiles, Kurt believes Blaine believes it.

Once they're finished, they head back to the street. The fresh air and relatively quiet traffic noise is an immediate respite. Kurt has to stop himself from reflexively reaching to loop his arm through Blaine's elbow. He gestures down 42nd street "Do you want to see where I work? It's on the way."

"I'd love to," Blaine says. "I wandered around a bit the other night, waiting for your Dad's text to say you were on your way, but I was so nervous, it's all a bit of a blur now."

"Mmm," Kurt says. "It took me a while to stop feeling overwhelmed by it all. Everywhere you turn, there's something."

Beside him, Blaine's smile is easy. Almost peaceful.

"I really am," Kurt says, "glad you came."

"Me too," Blaine says.

"And I honestly do think it's great you've applied to NYADA. I've been watching Rachel this semester. It's been tough, but she's learned a lot. And, hey, if I go back to Lima, I'm sure she'd be happy to have you as her roommate."

"It'll be weird being here if you're not," Blaine says.

"Yeah, well," Kurt says. "I'm not the reason you've applied, am I?" Kurt looks at Blaine, whose eyes are widening. "At least I hope not, because I can't promise—"

"No, Kurt. You're not _the_ reason. Maybe part of a reason, because…" Blaine shrugs helplessly. "I like you."

"But it can't be like we used to talk about. Even if I stay."

"I know," Blaine says.

They walk the rest of the way in a not entirely comfortable silence. It's gusty and cold in the shadows of the buildings, and the winter wind cuts through Kurt's jeans to chill his shins until they're numb. When they get to the Condé Nast building, Kurt asks, "Do you want to go in? I can give you a tour. Probably not the couture vault or anything like that, but the Vogue office and public spaces."

"Yeah, that'd be cool," Blaine says. He cranes his neck, peering up at the forty-eight stories of granite, glass, and steel. "It's amazing that you work here."

The lobby is warm and airy. Kurt watches Blaine as he looks about at the modern art collection and the funky architectural details. When Blaine turns his attention back to Kurt, Kurt jerks his head, "The elevators are this way."

Up in the Vogue dot com suite, it's quiet since most of the employees are still on their holiday break. A woman Kurt doesn't recognize sits in for Amanda. He shows her his ID.

"You want to take a picture?" Kurt asks Blaine, who's looking a touch starstruck by his surroundings. Kurt still feels the same way, but he's gotten better at hiding it.

Blaine does want a photo, so they take one together, and then, "I'll show you my office," Kurt says. "Such as it is." He leads Blaine down the wide corridor. "It's small, but I have it to myself, and it has a window with a fantastic view, so I re—."

"Is that you, Kurt?" Isabelle's voice comes behind him.

Kurt spins on his toe. "Oh! Hi," he says, and he's smiling widely before he can check himself. "Happy Boxing Day."

"Please, tell me you're not here to work," she says, and Kurt notices her noticing Blaine. She's wearing a vintage (1960's Kurt thinks) Kelly green plaid dress and a pretty cloisonne brooch of a wren.

"No, not at all," Kurt says. "I was just showing— Um. I should introduce you." Kurt turns to Blaine and gestures toward Isabelle. "Blaine, this is Isabelle Wright, my boss and fairy godmother. Isabelle," Kurt puts his hand on Blaine's arm. "This is my— this is Blaine Anderson."

It's a vaguely surreal moment. Kurt didn't expect to see Isabelle, didn't imagine what this meeting would be like. But Blaine's charm comes so naturally and Isabelle's warmth is undeniable. Blaine shakes Isabelle's hand, and says something about how he's heard such good things about her, and they make some affectionate teasing remarks about Kurt. Then they chat a little bit about Columbus, and it's all very—surprisingly—natural. But then Isabelle turns her attention back to Kurt.

"Now, since you're here, Kurt, if I may borrow you for a moment?" she asks.

"Oh, yes, of course," he says, glances at Blaine.

"I'll wait in the lobby?" Blaine says.

"Or you can wait in my office," Kurt suggests. He digs in his pocket for his keycard, and Blaine takes it. "Last door on the right."

"I won't keep him long," Isabelle promises.

In Isabelle's office, they both sit in front of the desk. Isabelle turns her chair to face Kurt. "You two looked friendly," she says.

"My Dad," Kurt says, "surprised me on Christmas Eve, just turned up at the door with a Christmas tree. He brought Blaine, too—another surprise—so the three of us had the day together yesterday."

"Oh, that's good to hear. I'd worried about you being on your own for Christmas."

With a shrug, Kurt dismisses her concern. "What about you? Did you catch up with your friends?"

"Yes, I did, and it was lovely." She cocks her head then, and looks at him in that way she does, that makes Kurt feel like she sees everything about his heart and all of it is safe here. "But I'm curious—and I hope you don't mind my asking—how are things with you and your Blaine?"

That makes Kurt smile, not without some sadness, but there's good feelings too. He doesn't know the right word to distill their situation. There's no name that Kurt knows, for all they've been to each other and all they've lost and what still remains. He decides to go with understatement and trusts Isabelle to understand. "The rapprochement is going well, I'd say. We're friends. I mean, it's complicated and it's still hard, but we're friends, and it's good because I've really missed him."

"I'm glad you have your friend again, Kurt," she says.

Kurt nods. "So, really I should thank you for your advice at Thanksgiving. It helped, and..." Kurt feels his lips twist with the twinge of tears behind his eyes, He blinks and nods and feels gravity swoop beneath him. "It's good to have him back in my life. Thank you."

She waves it off. "But you look," she narrows her eyes and studies him. "Tired and sad."

"My Dad," tumbles out of Kurt's mouth again. "He came to tell me… uh. The reason he came. He's sick. He has cancer."

"Oh... Oh, Kurt." And her hand is on his wrist, she's leans forward, and the jasmine and rose scent of her perfume buffets him. There's concern in her eyes.

Kurt explains. "They caught it early," he says. "The prognosis is good. It's not... he's not dying." He tells her more about the details and the statistics, an overview of the most effective treatment options, and somehow in the course of the explanation to reassure Isabelle's concern, he actually reassures himself. Dry-eyed and light-hearted, he stops speaking and turns to glance out the window.

When he was brand new to New York and only thought of it in superlative terms of amazing opportunities to pursue and dreams to be fulfilled, he didn't really understand just how many people are out there in this city. How many thousands of people are, right now, encompassed within the arc of his view, behind walls and windows, on the streets and in the cars—or in the trains rushing down below, the airplanes arcing overhead, or the ferries chugging across the river. All the people, hoping and fearing and trying to make the best of it through each of their days: trying to find joy and escape their pain, just like him. He has a lot to be grateful for.

"That sounds hopeful then," Isabelle says, and Kurt turns back to her.

"I— Yeah, I hope it is."

"Hoping for hope," Isabelle says with humor in the tilt of her smile and a wisp of dreaminess in her voice. "It's the best we can do sometimes."

Kurt takes a long blink, inhales deeply, and smiles. His heart relaxes, and—just for a moment—he feels weightless.

"So your Dad's on his way back to D.C., and Blaine's here until...?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"And I'm guessing, because of the surprise, you didn't get to plan anything."

"No, no, I really haven't."

"Well, let me know if I can help you with dinner reservations or tickets. You know I know people," she says.

Kurt's smile broadens as he thinks about it: how much he'd daydreamed of an evening like that with Blaine in New York: dinner, a show, a romantic walk under the city lights. The fantasy still holds undeniable appeal, but only as a pleasant memory. There's more nostalgia than desire. Plus, he's still so tired and his heart remains bruised-feeling. Even if the pain is not so sharp or urgent, it's not gone. "Thanks, but, you know what? I think we'll spend the evening in, catching up." He pauses as he realizes" "I'm sure we'll have other opportunities."

Isabelle looks pleased with him. Then she gets up and goes to her desk, pulls out a drawer. "I know you're not back at work until Wednesday, but if you want a head start on the Street Style piece for January, I can give you the galleys to peruse."

"Thank you," Kurt says, takes the folder.

"Enjoy your time with Blaine," she says and stands.

"I will," Kurt says and it feels like a promise.

#

Kurt finds Blaine waiting in his office, by the window, staring out at the view toward Times Square. The vision of Blaine here, like this, makes Kurt's heart trip a sudden, clumsy beat. "Hey," Kurt says. He ignores the tug of regret, focuses on the affection. Smiles fondly.

"Hi," Blaine says and his gaze flicks down to the folder in Kurt's hand. "Do you have work?"

"It's nothing pressing." He's pretty sure Isabelle just wanted to make sure he had a distraction for after Blaine leaves. He'll need one. And then Kurt doesn't know what to say next. "So, this is my office," he tries, gesturing grandly about the narrow room. The desk chair separates him from Blaine. 

"You were right about the view," Blaine says. His attention moves to the scatter of papers upon Kurt's desk. "Is this your work?" Blaine asks.

"Oh, yeah," Kurt says. It's a collection of original sketches and clippings and collages. "It's weird, I guess, but I still prefer working with paper and scissors and glue sometimes. It helps me organize my ideas better."

"It's really good," Blaine says. He picks up the top sheet. It's the start of a piece Kurt was brainstorming about twentieth century pastel trends in menswear, using the Brooks Brothers' upcoming work on _The Great Gatsby_ as inspiration. There's sketches surrounding pasted clippings, and suddenly Kurt is very aware that the default male model he draws shares some features with Blaine. 

"It's some ideas for spring features. It's early, but I like looking ahead," Kurt says.

"You're really good at this, Kurt," Blaine says, more insistently. "And I can tell how much Isabelle respects you. I doubt many interns would have this kind of creative input."

Kurt shrugs, feels his face heat at the praise. He's not usually inclined to deny it—he knows he's got good instincts. It's just… He looks at the other pages on the desk. The creative space he was in when he was working on them seems like it belongs to a different person. It's only been a few days, but it feels like everything is different now.

"You're making your dreams come true," Blaine says. "Here and at NYADA." Blaine sets the page down, moves closer to Kurt (has to sidle behind the chair to reach him). "I'm really proud of you, I hope you know that. And so is your Dad."

Kurt nods and presses his lips together. "What else did you want to see while you're here?" he asks Blaine.

#

They walk around the theater district and take some photographs. Kurt tells Blaine the tale of how he and Rachel broke in to the Gershwin Theater for the dozenth time; Blaine listens as raptly as ever. Laughs at all the right moments. And somehow it feels like a brand new story to tell Blaine while they're standing here, outside the theater, looking up at the marquee.

"But I don't think we should try breaking in again," Kurt says.

"I miss singing with you," Blaine says.

Kurt's breath catches on a failed attempt at a reply. He takes Blaine's elbow and steers him back up the sidewalk. A soft, "Me too," is all he manages, and they walk together quietly for a block. Kurt lets his hand fall from Blaine's elbow.

"NYADA's not far from here is it?" Blaine asks.

"Nothing will be open today," Kurt says.

"Could we walk by anyway?" Blaine asks. "I'd just like to see it, you know?"

"Yeah, sure."

It's just three more blocks and two turns and they're there. Kurt points out the features he knows: the antique windows of the main dance studio, the protruding modern dome of the round room, the entrance to the administration building and the registrar's office.

Smiling, Blaine tucks his hands into his coat pockets. "Standing here makes everything seem so much more real," he says.

"I still pinch myself most days," Kurt says. He looks at the buildings into which he's long sought entrance as a student. His enrollment packet is at home, on his desk, under last April's _Vogue_. Some days, though, he wishes there were a little bit less real in his life. He sighs. "I can't tell if I'm being foolish," Kurt says.

"About what?" Blaine turns toward him.

With a shrug, Kurt gestures toward an empty bench nearby. They sit. "It's like…" Kurt pauses, takes a deep breath. "I'm afraid to let myself feel hopeful. About my Dad. I keep slipping. I know the math, I know his chances are objectively good. There are moments when I truly believe he'll be okay, but then..." Kurt looks down at his lap, fidgets with the seams of his gloves.

"But then?"

"Then I'm certain he won't be, that it's not possible to roll the dice again and get the result I want. That's it's stupid for me to hope. That I'm just setting myself up for another fall. So I should just take the time we have left and go home."

"Hope isn't stupid," Blaine says.

"Well, it doesn't feel very _smart_ right now."

"Maybe not, but how about well-informed but cautious optimism?"

Kurt summons up a wry smile. "A compromise?"

"It's better than fear, isn't it?"

"I guess."

"I've never known you to give in to fear, Kurt."

"First time for everything, huh?" Kurt laughs without much energy or humor. "I just keep thinking if I stay and things go badly for him, I'll regret it forever."

"You're only a short plane flight away," Blaine says. 

"That's far enough."

"If you leave Vogue, don't start at NYADA, and end up moving back to Lima, will you regret that less? Do you think your Dad would be happy if you gave up on your own life?"

Kurt closes his eyes, tries to find the feeling he discovered in Isabelle's office. The moment of faith and warmth and genuine hope. "Do you really believe he'll be okay?" Kurt asks, and hurries to add, "Don't just tell me what I want to hear or what you think I need to hear. Do you honestly believe it, Blaine?"

"Without having a crystal ball or making you a promise no one can actually make? I can tell you, yes, I believe he'll make it through this. He's your Dad just as much as you're his son."

"That matters?"

"It does." Blaine bumps his shoulder against Kurt's until Kurt looks up. "And I told you I'd keep an eye on him. I promise I will. I'll even get him set up on Skype so you can keep an eye on him, too, all right?"

"Really?"

"Of course, dummy." Blaine's smile is unexpectedly brilliant.

Kurt laughs and stands up. "Leftovers for a late lunch back at the loft? Or do you want to do more sightseeing?" He turns and offers Blaine his hand.

"I came to see you, Kurt," Blaine says, and he puts his hand in Kurt's. "Let's go back."

#

While Kurt throws together some pastry in the food processor to make individual turkey pot pies for lunch, Blaine checks his voice mail and text messages. He sits on the futon and calls Sam back. It starts off amused, lots of laughter—and something about the Mayan Apocalypse and a fake marriage to Brittany that has Kurt sending Blaine several quizzical looks. It's nice to hear Blaine laughing, to see him at ease. But the call turns quieter, and Blaine stands and turns away, looking out the window as he speaks to Sam. Kurt can't make out words, but Blaine sounds like he's reassuring Sam of something—or being reassured himself. 

Once the pot pies are in the oven, and Blaine is still on the phone, Kurt goes to Rachel's room to change the bed for her. He leaves the basket of dirty sheets next to her dresser. He'll take care of the laundry tomorrow, after Blaine leaves. He won't take the Christmas tree down until she gets back and has a chance to enjoy it.

Blaine's off the phone when Kurt comes back out. "Everything okay back home?" Kurt asks.

"Oh, yeah. Sam and Brittany—" Blaine breaks of with a chuckle. "They were convinced the Mayan Apocalypse was real, and, well, you know how Sam gets so tenacious when he's got a theory to prove."

"I can imagine," Kurt says. Grins to himself as he checks the oven. He remembers well how, when Sam was living with his family, he was always wanting to watch the documentaries about aliens building the pyramids or Nazi ghost hunters or Bigfoot. How he said it made the world feel bigger and more awesome to think about those things. (And then sometimes they'd end up debating the existence of God until Finn made them both shut up.) "I'm glad you've become close with Sam," Kurt says. "He's a great guy."

"Yeah, he's been… a really good friend." Blaine says.

Over lunch—which has become more of an early dinner—Blaine is subdued, and Kurt wonders what else it was he talked to Sam about—the quiet, concerned stuff—but he doesn't ask. He's not really sure if it's his place any longer, to ask Blaine if he's okay or whether something's bothering him or… The boundaries between them are different, still shifting. Kurt's not sure where they all are right now. So they talk about Glee Club and the challenges it's facing now: how Sue took over the choir room, about Blaine's stint on the cheerios with Tina when it all fell apart, and the way Finn rallied them back together. But they're still left wondering what's next.

#

Kurt is drying the last plate from their meal and Blaine is snapping the lids closed on the plastic leftover containers and putting them back in the refrigerator. "So what do you want to do this evening?" Kurt asks. "I've got a ton of stuff on the DVR we could marathon. _What Not to Wear_ or _Say Yes to the Dress_ or _So You Think You Can Dance_ or… um… If you're not keen on reality TV, I've got some _Poirot_ and _Murder She Wrote_ and _Downton Abbey_. Rachel's recorded a bunch of _Little House on the Prairie_ —"

"Actually," Blaine interrupts. "Could we talk? Like, could I talk and you maybe listen?"

"Oh," Kurt says. He turns away and folds the damp dishtowel into even thirds and hangs it over the oven door to dry. He's abruptly cold and uncomfortable with all his emotions wheeling the wrong way. His skull feels too small and his lips too clumsy. "I don't know, I don't know if I can..."

"I know," Blaine says quickly. "I know. I don't need to have that conversation, there are just… There are some things I want you to know, Kurt, just so you know them. But I understand if the timing is bad, but I don't know when I'll see you again, and over the phone? I don't want to tell you these things over the phone."

There's a catch in Blaine's voice. Nerves and something else. With a sigh, Kurt tries to figure out how to reply, how he actually feels, what the result of this will be. Whether it will be better or worse.

"It doesn't matter," Blaine says when Kurt doesn't speak or move from where he's standing in front of the stove. "I'm being selfish. There's no reason for you to listen, I don't deserve—"

Kurt responds instinctively to that, turns back to face Blaine, the kitchen table between them: "No, oh, hush, honey, you—" Kurt swallows around the endearment that came out unbidden. He doesn't want to see Blaine retreating just as he's reached out. Even if this is a bad time, there will never be a good time for this. He pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table.

Blaine looks at him with such exposed _sadness_ in his eyes, and it's all Kurt can feel suddenly, the reciprocal of that sadness welling up inside himself too, filling him up cold and implacable, surging up his throat like it's going to choke him if he tries to keep it down, but he won't let it out—can't—because if he does, he'll never get it back in again, and in seems safer than out for now. 

It takes a moment to gather his breath. "You can tell me," Kurt says. "We're still friends, Blaine, and if you need to tell me something. I'll listen.

Blaine's hands flutter to the back of the chair opposite Kurt, but he hesitates to pull it out and sit. "I wanted to know if I could tell you about Eli?" he asks quietly.

Kurt blinks at looks down at the table top. "Um. I... I don't want to know details."

"No," Blaine says. "But I want you to know some things. About it. About me."

Kurt is quiet.

"If you can listen? I understand if this isn't the right time."

"It'll never be the right time for this, Blaine."

"Right, yeah. I guess not." 

Kurt hears the scrape of the chair legs. Glances up to see Blaine sitting. "Okay. Talk to me."

Blaine sits straight in the chair, sighs, and runs his hands over his hair. "First, I guess I wanted to tell you that it wasn't... good. Not really. I thought it was something maybe I needed, but it wasn't. As soon as I did it, I knew it wasn't, but it was too late. I'd already..." Blaine trails off with a heavy rush of air.

Kurt stays quiet as Blaine looks at him anxiously. Kurt can't smile, but he manages a nod.

"I didn't know myself that day. I just... I didn't know my own life. And I tried... to figure it out, but nothing was working, and you were so far away, and busy, and you didn't have time for me. It felt like our future was disappearing and those two weeks felt like a wall, and I just—" Blaine cuts himself off with a ragged breath. His eyes are watery, his lips twisting around whatever words he's trying to get out.

"You were that unhappy?" Kurt offers into the silence.

"Kurt, I missed you so much, you weren't _there_... " Blaine shrugs and closes his mouth. And Kurt realizes "there" wasn't Lima, "there" was them.

"And Eli was?" Kurt says. He wants to ask how Blaine could doubt him that quickly or easily and why two weeks was too long. He thought Blaine understood his crazy schedule. But he doesn't ask, because he knows how it will sound coming out.

Blaine shrugs again, apathetically. "I barely knew him. It didn't mean anything."

"So you've said," Kurt says before he can stop himself. He at least stops the words from sounding angry. They come out too cool instead of too hot. 

Blaine looks up. "What does that mean?"

"If it didn't mean anything, Blaine," Kurt asks tiredly. The spike of anger he feared rousing fades quickly into exhaustion. "Then why did you do it? If you were going to do something to hurt me, shouldn't it at least be something that mattered? You'd think I'd deserve at least that much."

"I didn't do it to hurt you."

"That's hard to believe. How could you possibly think it wouldn't?"

"I was angry at you," Blaine admits evenly. "But I wasn't really thinking like that, that's the point. I wasn't thinking, I was just so frustrated, Kurt. I was looking for relief, I guess."

"But you didn't find it?"

"No." Blaine looks down at his hands. When he raises his gaze back to Kurt, it's open and steady. "What I found was clarity," he says.

"Clarity?" Kurt asks.

"About you," Blaine says. "About how much I love you and how much I want to keep loving you. I remembered that you're it for me, Kurt, and I remembered what you'd promised me. So I booked the plane ticket and came as soon as I could, to try to tell you that, hoping that you meant what you'd promised—hoping I hadn't broken things."

Regret sinks, hard and immutable, within Kurt, and it feels like it takes his heart down with it. "But you have."

"Yes, I have," Blaine says.

"Yeah," Kurt says, and loneliness yaws in his chest as he looks at Blaine, who was meant to be forever, and he just can't see it any longer, not the way he once did. And he wants so badly to forgive Blaine, wants this all to be simple again, but he can't figure out how. He can see how badly Blaine is hurting, too—how much he's hurt himself, but that doesn't make it easier. Kurt can't change it. He blinks a rush of heat from his eyes. "I wish..." he starts, and then he shudders. "I wish so much you hadn't."

"Me too. Oh, Kurt, if I could take it back, I would." Blaine reaches across the table, stretches his fingers toward Kurt.. "God, some days I think I should... study physics, so I can devote my life to inventing a time machine just so I can go back and fix this. I never wanted to end up like this with you. I never wanted to hurt you so badly. I love you."

Hearing those words, even so sincerely spoken, just doesn't mean what it used to. The chasm of pain lies between them—the gap that was never meant to be there but irrevocably is, and Blaine cannot apologize enough to fill it—and, Kurt knows Blaine's not going to go become a theoretical physicist, invent a time machine, and fix this. Because if he had, they wouldn't be here like this now. Blaine would have fixed it, so that they're still like this... means it's unfixable. There's a horrible, selfish part of him that wishes Blaine had lied, had never told him. Blaine's a good actor, he could have pretended. 

But then, the thought of it, of Blaine caging a poisonous secret like that in his own heart nauseates Kurt. But maybe there's something of value in the thought. "I'm glad you told me," Kurt says at last. "That you didn't keep it a secret." 

Resignation clouds Blaine's gaze, and Kurt reaches for his fingers, grasps them and squeezes. He searches his heart again, to see if he's overlooked some other insight or feeling. He cares for Blaine, as much as always. Wishes he could ease this pain for both of them. Wishes they could go back to how it was before. But every time he tries to follow that desire, he stumbles. The way back is closed forever.

There's nothing to do now but grieve, and it seems right that they grieve for it together. Kurt lets go of Blaine's hand and stands. Blaine watches as Kurt comes around the table to him. He offers his hand to Blaine again. "Would you?" Kurt asks. "Come to bed with me. One last time?"

#

They make love again, and it does feel like this is the last time they ever will, like this will never be possible again. This as much of his heart as Kurt can bear to expose, and it can't last. 

So for all the things they were, and for all the things they'll never now be for each other, Kurt tries to honor them as best he can, with his body and with Blaine's. He kisses every part of Blaine goodbye, wipes his quiet tears upon Blaine's skin and lets Blaine brush them away with tender fingertips. It feels formal, like a ritual, when Blaine turns them over, and takes similar care with Kurt. Then he sits up, shifting his weight back onto Kurt's thighs, poised to reach for the lubricant. "Would you, please?" Blaine asks. "If this is our last time? Let me feel you inside?"

"Yeah... yes," Kurt answers and half-sits, to take up the lube himself, and then he asks something he's rarely asked Blaine: "How do you want to do this?"

Blaine hesitates, looks down at where his hands hands are resting upon Kurt's ribs, and then he looks back up. Moves to get off Kurt. "Like the first time?" he asks, and lowers himself to his belly, looking over at Kurt with entreaty and love and loss and more than a little bit of apprehension. It may be the most vulnerable Kurt's ever seen Blaine. He's more vulnerable in this moment at the end than he ever was their first time.

"Of course," Kurt says, it's mostly air.

"And... slow?" Blaine asks.

"I..." Kurt blinks back the burn from his eyes. "Yes."

Blaine's smile is desperately sweet, and Kurt reaches for the unopened box of condoms in his nightstand drawer. He looks at the box as he undoes the cellophane but speaks to Blaine. "I need to... ask you something."

"Yes?"

Kurt glances up as he reaches into the box. "Were you safe?"

Blaine's mouth comes open for a moment before he replies. He pushes himself up to his elbows. "We... um." He blinks rapidly, takes a deeper breath, raises his gaze and speaks with strange, sad resolution. "Yes, Kurt. I was safe."

Kurt nods, swallows hard. "Good," he says. "I'm still going to use this, I just..."

"Right," Blaine says, and he watches Kurt roll the condom on. Then he says more softly, with static in his voice. "I'm sorry you had to ask me that."

"Please. Stop apologizing to me," Kurt says. He touches Blaine's back, strokes over the warm satin skin, the graceful integral curve of his spine. "I know you're sorry, and I don't want this to be about you feeling guilty."

"Then... what is it about? For you?"

Kurt watches his hand upon Blaine's body. "Love," Kurt says, and as he says the word, he feels it in his heart, swelling and unfurling, irrepressible. There remain things that are impossible, things that hurt too much, but he knows this one thing is still true. "I still love you," he says, because, at least in this moment, he wants to let it overpower the loss and the pain and the impossible things. As a gift, it comes a day late, but at least it's there, spoken aloud between them, and Blaine can take it home with him.

"Kurt," Blaine says, reaches for him, and Kurt lets him pull him into a kiss.

#

Kurt wakes up first the next morning. Blaine's heartbeat beneath his cheek is like a clock counting down. Kurt rouses Blaine with a kiss to his breastbone. "Coffee?" he asks.

Blaine doesn't open his eyes. "Please, yeah. What time is it?"

"There's a few hours before the shuttle gets here," Kurt says. "I'll make something to eat while you shower."

#

After breakfast and after Blaine is packed, they wait. Blaine's bags are by the door, and the dishes are done. They sit on the futon together. 

"So what happens now?" Kurt asks. He doesn't know what Blaine will expect, or even what Blaine will want.

"I go home, and you get ready to start classes in three weeks."

That Blaine is being so practical, and the assumption he makes—it makes Kurt smile. "No, I mean, with us."

"We're friends, Kurt. We'll talk on the phone, send each other texts. You can tell me about your days, the classes you have, the professors you love, the ones you don't, the clubs you join... the cute boys who flirt with you. And whether you flirt back."

It settles strangely, heavy and light at the same time, the realization that this is Blaine setting him free, if he wishes to be. "So if I met someone...?"

Blaine bows his head for a moment before he looks back up at Kurt. There's nothing but generosity in his gaze. "You deserve to be loved, Kurt, by someone who hasn't hurt you."

"Blaine..." Kurt's vision goes blurry.

Blaine blinks a glimmer of tears from his own eyes. "I can't take back what I did, and I can't expect you to forgive me."

"I still want to."

"But you haven't."

"No."

"So, we're friends."

"Best friends." Kurt takes Blaine's hand.

Blaine's smile is only a little weak; he holds Kurt's hand tightly. "Yes. Which means I'm here for you, always, no matter what."

"I am, too, for you. Please, don't ever forget that. And if you start seeing someone, you can talk to me, okay? Just, please, Blaine, don't go out with Sebastian."

Blaine laughs. "No, no, god no."

"I'm serious. Whatever you did with Eli, and I don't want to... judge you for it, but, whoever you're with, it should mean something. It shouldn't hurt you." Kurt thinks back to his Dad giving him The Talk way back when Kurt was sure he'd end up a thirty year old virgin. "Don't throw yourself around like you don't matter, Blaine. You deserve love, too."

Blaine's phone dings with an automated text from the shuttle service. Kurt lets go and watches him stand. Blaine takes a deep breath. "I guess this is it," he says.

Kurt stands, offers a shallow smile. "For now."

"Um. Thank you. For everything," Blaine says. He heads for the door as he slips his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket.

"Thank you for coming." Kurt follows him.

"So is this? Is this goodbye?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No, honey. This is a see you later."

"All right then," Blaine says, and opens his arms to invite a hug. 

Kurt hugs him tightly and kisses him on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Blaine lets Kurt carry his backpack down to the street. They hug again before Blaine climbs in the van, and then Kurt waits on the curb until the shuttle is out of sight.

#

Kurt slides the heavy metal door closed with a clank, and he locks it. Then he stands for a time with his hand pressed to the cool surface of the door and the loft quiet and empty behind him. He's alone. In the absence of Blaine or his Dad—and even Rachel, the loft seems larger, like it contains more air. The silence is palpable—and welcome to be sure—but it's a strange, sudden contrast. It also beckons him, with a giddy twist of longing uncurling in his chest. It's a blank auditory canvas.

So first he goes to the stereo and dials through his iPod until he gets to the _Wicked_ score. He presses play and hums to warm up his voice as he heads for his room. The bed is unmade, and the sheets desperately need a change. He strips them off, all but for the pillow Blaine used. That he leaves. Bruce can stay in the trunk for a few nights longer and allow Kurt to be sentimental. 

Then Kurt changes his clothes to dance pants, a t-shirt, and his royal blue cashmere hoodie. He begins to sing while he remakes his bed. 

In a way, and even though he's never stopped singing, it feels like he's been quiet for a long time. As he fills the space with his voice, he finds his practice has a renewed focus. Kurt goes to his desk and picks up the old April issue of _Vogue_. His enrollment pack is there waiting for him. From where he left his phone in the living room, it interrupts the music with a text notification.

Kurt grabs a pen along with the enrollment forms and heads out. Collects his phone on his way to the kitchen table, and he sits. The text is from his Dad. He's at the apartment in D.C. and making himself a turkey sandwich from the leftovers Kurt made him take. With a smile, Kurt types a text back: thanks his father for a wonderful, memorable Christmas. Then he sends his Dad the photo of him and Blaine in the Vogue office. He takes a moment to send a text to Blaine too, wishing him a good flight and inviting him to call when he gets home.

Then Kurt sets the phone aside and turns his attention to the forms. He picks up the pen, and starts with writing his name.

**the end**


End file.
